


The Pack Survives

by EternalFangirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Everybody Lives, F/M, Gen, Kings of Winter, Myrcella is to marry Robb, Ned lives, Robb Lives, Robbcella - Freeform, Romance, Slow Burn, They all go back to Winterfell, no red wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10073423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: What if Robb Stark had managed to bring his armies to King's Landing? What if everything had gone exactly as planned for once, and all the Starks (including Ned) were able to go home to Winterfell, where they belong? A play on the timeline and a culling of treacherous characters is all that is needed.This is a story where everything works out okay in the end. Lord Eddard Stark becomes the reluctant king in the North, and he comes back home with a princess for his heir to wed.[At the beginning of this story, Robb is seventeen and Myrcella is twelve, in compliance with the show]





	1. Author's Note: Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annabelsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelsmith/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be adding new thoughts to the Author's Note for every new chapter, and it started to seem clunky to me. So here's a single post about all the assumptions I have made in this fic.

It is really, really hard to not want the entire Stark family to be alive and well, I suppose. There are seven dead Starks by the end of the show by my count (and I didn’t even count the wolves). All I wanted was to see what would happen if everything had gone right and Robb had arrived at the gates of King’s Landing with a large army in time to save his father.

 

Writing a fic in this epic fantasy world might be a big mistake, but please bear with me. Remember, I have watched all the show but am only nearing the end of the first book, so my writing will reflect that. The ages of the children, for example, are taken from the show instead of the books.

 

The assumptions here are as follows:

 

  1. Lord Eddard Stark was in King’s Landing for an entire year before everything went to shit, and he became dear to the people because of he was good at his job.
  2. Ned told Robert about his suspicions, that the children were Jaime’s. Robert started screaming for his brother-in-law and ended up taking a topple down the stairs, putting him in a coma.
  3. Ned was imprisoned in the dungeons of the Red Keep for a great while. He did not admit his crime, but was left to rot in the dungeons awhile.
  4. Robb called his bannermen and began marching South. Enraged at the treatment of their overlord, the Northerners heard the rumors about Cersei’s children and came to the conclusion that the Baratheon line was gone. They named Robb the King in the North (not the Riverlands) on the road.
  5. Robb and Renly joined forces.
  6. As a price for letting their host cross the bridge at the twins, Lord Walder asked for his overlord’s hand in marriage. Edmure was to marry a Frey girl from the very start.



 

Regarding Jon and Dany: This fic focuses heavily on the Starks, and so I am not very optimistic about writing Dany into a chapter until she sails for Dragonstone. Only then, I think, will news get to the North about the Dragon Queen. A _lot_ of people have started asking about Jon. He is at the Wall, learning of the threat to the realms of men, so he won't be appearing in the first few chapters. In chapter eight, Arya talks about him. There are other mentions, until Jon gets stabbed. He is revived by Melissandre at Winterfell, though I have no idea when in the story that will happen. And yes, I remember Ned's promise to Jon. That is one of the reasons I want Jon reviving at Winterfell, with Lady Stark finally learning there was no reason for her to be a bitch to him. Should have been you, my ruby red ass.

 

In the entire fic, I will be using [ this ](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B1nG79uXVZ8uRTVzcmV5bTMwMDQ) excel sheet to measure distances and travel time in all of Westeros. It tells me the distance between places (by land or sea), the distance for ravens, the speeds of ravens, single rider vs. large party vs. army speeds, the speeds of various types of ships, and a lot more.

 

Robb is seventeen at the beginning of the story, and looks like Richard Madden. Though I liked Nell Tiger Free’s portrayal of her, my Myrcella is only twelve years old, and Aimee Richardson seems sweet, but somehow not delicate enough. So me and my friend Rosa went looking, and she found a [ model ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/83/a9/70/83a9701f6c725dfb75005a20d64cf95e.jpg)on Pinterest that looks like the Myrcella in my head. It was surprisingly difficult :)

 

That’s it. That is all you need to know. Thank you for clicking on my story, and I hope you like what you read!

 

~EternalFangirl

 


	2. Winter is coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is really, really hard to not want the entire Stark family to be alive and well, I suppose. There are seven dead Starks by the end of the show by my count (and I didn’t even count the wolves). All I wanted was to see what would happen if everything had gone right and Robb had arrived at the gates of King’s Landing with a large army in time to save his father.
> 
> Writing a fic in this epic fantasy world might be a big mistake, but please bear with me. Remember, I have watched all the show but am only nearing the end of the first book, so my writing will reflect that. The ages of the children, for example, are taken from the show instead of the books.
> 
> So here we are, with all of Westeros seemingly in arms against King’s Landing.

Condemning the Hand of the King as a traitor would have worked well for the Lannisters, if the man had not been the honorable Eddard Stark.

 

People knew the reputation of the stern Warden of the North. They knew of the friendship between the king and his Hand, and had been hopeful that the Hand would talk some sense into their boisterous king. The North loved the humorless man, and the South had been eagerly looking forward to the same.

 

It did not look like the king would recover from his wounds and wake up from his deep sleep. The Hand was imprisoned, and the North spewed forth a giant army that marched to rescue him. The people of King’s Landing were uneasy. It seemed as if they would be left at the mercy of their boy king and his grandfather’s army, and with each passing day, the Northern army seemed to grow in size.

 

The young wolf was yet to lose a battle, and he seemed to realize the importance of swelling his numbers. He marched steadily on, the numbers ever increasing, with the marketplaces in the South becoming a hotbed of gossip and intrigue. No one knew how many men he commanded, but everyone knew of his fierce direwolf.

 

Jon Arryn’s recent death had ensured the support of the Knights of the Vale. It was said that the little Warden of the East wanted to see his father’s murder avenged, and had tasked the knights of the Vale with helping the young wolf. The boy was regarded by many as sickly and slightly deranged, but in this he would not listen to his mother. He wanted a war, for he had never seen one, and he wanted someone to punish his father’s killer, the Queen. The South bore such accusations in stony silence. The Knights of the Vale were feared and respected too much. 

 

Lady Catelyn Stark was invaluable to her son. She secured the 100,000 men that marched under Renly Baratheon, and suddenly the threat that loomed over King’s Landing was greater than ever. Tywin Lannister had Stannis Baratheon coming from the sea and the wolves coming from the North, while the King in Highgarden ensured that the Southern Armies were starved of resources.

 

By the time Ned Stark had spent three months in the dungeons of the Red Keep, it felt as though the whole world was coming to avenge the slight. There were kings in every corner, and Lord Tywin seemed ill-equipped to deal with them.

 

Rumors flew about the king too, about how he had raged and screamed at his wife, how he beaten her severely before he had left her rooms in all haste. He had been screaming for the Kingslayer, it was said, and for his warhammer. If he hadn’t fallen down the stairs, the Kingslayer wouldn’t be alive, the whispers said. The whispers also wondered how their king could have fallen, how the sure-footed warrior could have missed a step.

 

The King wouldn’t live to see his friend beheaded, everyone knew. The deep sleep of death had claimed him, and the future was uncertain. The Kingslayer was a prisoner of Robb Stark, and Ned Stark’s daughter was humiliated in court everyday while the man rotted in prison. However it was going to end, it was not going to end well. Those who were wealthy enough to leave the city did so with haste, leaving the poor to beg in the streets.

 

Winter was coming to King’s Landing, and Lord Tywin seemed at a loss of what to do.

 

When winter knocked, the people feared an enormous war. Instead, Lord Tywin requested a parley with the King in the North, bowing his proud head and inviting the man to sit down and  _ talk.  _ They met in the small castle in Rosby, where young Prince Tommen had been sent very recently.

 

The young wolf had grown fearsome, and he came with his trusted bannermen, his wolf stalking and snarling next to him. He stared as his master did, but Tywin ignored the beast.

 

“I have a question for you, boy,” he said instead.

 

The Stark boy said nothing. He only nodded, and Tywin couldn’t keep his frustration from his face. The wolf growled in response, and none of the Northern oafs in the room said a word. “Do you wish to sit atop the iron throne?” He chuckled when he felt like screaming. “Let me tell you, that monstrosity is the worst thing you can subject your arse to.”

 

For a while, the boy did not speak. His mother was glaring at Tywin, but the boy seemed almost bored. “I want my sisters,” he said finally. “I want my father freed. It does not matter whether he spoke the truth or not. He will come home with us, as will my sisters. I want the heads of the men that torment Sansa on Joffrey’s orders. I want an end to your tyranny.”

 

“King Joffrey--”

 

“Prince,” the boy was quick to correct him. “The King is not dead yet.”

 

Tywin wanted to carve the smirk from his face. He made himself smile and nod. “Prince Joffrey can be overzealous in all his righteous anger,” he conceded. “But your sister is safe, as is your father.”

 

“And what of Arya?” asked Lady Catelyn.

 

“The little one?” Tywin had hoped he wouldn’t be asked about her. He had hoped they would simply assume they had her. He would have felt much better with three hostages instead of two, but there were some lies so transparent they weakened whoever uttered them. “The girl is lost,” he said finally.  

 

“Lost?” said Robb. “Is this your way of hiding what you have done to her?”

 

“I sent men after her,” said Tywin with rising temper. “They came back empty-handed. What would you like me to say? She ran away from her dancing lessons, and wasn’t seen again.”

 

Robb Stark’s brows furrowed. He looked confused by the notion of a high-born lady taking a dancing lesson. Perhaps that was not the way of the barbarians in the North. It seemed so, for his mother refused to let her tears fall. She sat stoically, her back rigid, her gaze flint. She looked as hard and solemn as a Stark. The wolves had eaten the fish in her.

 

“We will give you your Kingslayer for my father and sister,” said Robb Stark. “Was that all you wanted?”

 

“I want you to leave,” said Tywin. “I will deal with the King’s brothers, with Stannis in the water and Renly on the battlefield, but I want you to go back to your frozen homes. Take your sister and father with you.” He smiled. “That is why you came here, is it not?”

 

Behind the King in the North, his bannermen started to shift restlessly. None of them spoke, however, and Tywin was surprised. He had not thought that men like the Greatjon would ever let a green boy speak for them.

 

Robb Stark did not speak for a while, as though considering the offer. Then he began to laugh, throwing his head back as though Tywin had just uttered some great jape. No one else in the room so much as smiled. “I believe my father is a great man,” he said finally, “as many men do. But even for the greatest of all men, an army of thousands is too much of an escort, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Tywin hadn’t really expected the boy to accept. He had never lost a battle, and he had a huge army at his back. “Speak clearly, boy,” he snapped. The wolf straightened from its slouch at its master’s feet and snarled at him.

 

The boy merely stroked the beast’s back absently. He did not need to bend, even slouched on the ground the thing was almost as high as the boy’s elbow. Robb Stark leaned back into his chair. “I have not come alone, Lord Tywin,” he said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “These men with me, they love my father dearly, but they have lost their brothers and their sons. They did not sacrifice for things to go back to the way they were.” The smile dropped like a stone from a window. “They have named me the King in the North.”

 

“I wonder what that makes your father,” said Tywin drily, even as his mouth went dry.

 

“Once he is home in Winterfell, he will be the King in the North himself. So here are the terms that every Northerner will agree to. You give me my sisters, my father, and you give me the North. We will also take the ancestral sword of my house, Ice, as well as the remains of all those who have fallen in service to my father.”

 

“It is impossible,” said Tywin. “Least of all, because I do not have your sister.”

 

“You  _ murdered  _ her,” said the boy’s mother with anguished venom in her voice.

 

“Would that I could,” said Tywin with a shrug. “The little thing ran away, and none of my men can find her. She seems to have disappeared.” He smirked at the boy king. “Did you check under her bed before you left Winterfell?”

 

The boy said nothing. He continued to stare. Tywin felt a strange sense of respect for him. “You want me to believe that?”

 

“My men would be able to look for her better if they didn’t have to be afraid of wolves leaping out at them from behind trees,” said Tywin drily. “They say you command an army of wolves too.”

 

“So they do,” said the boy, and didn’t answer the hidden question. Tywin had expected him to boast.

 

“If I give you the North,” he asked, even though the words tasted like ashes in his mouth, “and all else you ask, will you leave?”

 

“I want my sisters,” said the boy. “Both of them.”

 

Tywin was  _ not  _ going to repeat himself. “Would  _ His Grace  _ like to think on the peace terms I have offered?”

 

The boy stood, and his mother stood with him. He left without a word, he left, his wolf loping at his side. None of the bannermen even looked at Tywin as they left. Greatjon spat in his direction as he left.

 

He had to find the damned girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who started another story! I am so, so, sorry, but this was clouding my head, and I wrote the first two chapters in one go. I even skipped dinner. It was a torrent of words.
> 
> It’s my sister’s fault, really. She gifted me the boxset for my birthday. It was amazing as hell, and I brought GoT with me on my flight from India to the US. Perfect to forget the aches in your cramped body. Thanks Didi. Only a true sister feeds obsessions.
> 
> I have been pressuring Rosa to watch Game of Thrones, but the bibliophile in her did one better and started to read the books instead. So now we are both reading the books together for the very first time. I have seen the show, she hasn’t.
> 
> And then I sort of fell in love with Richard Madden. Whoops! In my defence, he is Prince Charming, so… yeah. Besides, how could you _not_ love that laugh.


	3. I'm going home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to try to use pieces of poignant dialogue from the show as the chapter names, but I might fail. Don’t hold me to it. This one, of course, is the later half of Arya’s epic dialogue from season 6.

“Tywin must have tried to talk to both Renly and Stannis,” said Catelyn once they were alone. “We have the smallest of these allied armies, he would have come to us last.”

 

“That means that none of the stags listened to him,” said Robb. “Why should I?”

 

“They have your father,” Catelyn reminded him. “They have Sansa.”

 

“And what of Arya?” said Robb with sudden agitation. He stood up, and Grey Wind stood up with him, watching him prowl in his tent. “He’s not holding her captive, mother. It wouldn’t make sense to withhold her from us. What use is lying in this matter? He has done something to her, I am sure of it,” he said, unwilling to name his worst fear. “Would you not like me to avenge her?”

 

For a while, he simply stared at the agony on her face. He could feel the tears climbing into his eyes, and swiped an angry hand at his face. He was not a child. He would not cry.

 

“The men all heard the offer,” said Catelyn. “They want to leave, go back to an independent North. Even Lord Karstark is happy with a freed North. I asked him about it, Robb. Do you know what he said?”

 

“Robb had asked his man himself. “Let the other kings cut off the little shit’s head,” he recited. “Harrion is his oldest, and still alive. He wants to go home with his son rather than lose everything fighting for revenge. He says he is certain he will get it at the hand of some other king.”

 

“We do not have the men that Tywin Lannister thinks we do,” Catelyn said finally. “We do not even have the army of wolves the men seem to be afraid of. We have nothing, Robb, and we can go home without bloodshed, without losing any more Northern blood. It is an offer we have to consider.” Now she stood up, and reached out her hands to steady his pacing. “But not without Arya.”

 

“Not without Arya,” he agreed.

* * *

“I will not bow to a _boy_ who was playing with wooden swords a couple of months ago, Father.”

 

Cersei Lannister’s voice was low and dangerous, but there was no one else in the room. The venom in her voice was clear.

 

“The _boy,_ ” said Tywin through gritted teeth, “has united all the damned land against us.”

 

“Then we kill them all,” she said. “Give him his father’s head.”

 

“Cersei,” the tone of his voice was a warning. She wasn’t talking sense.

 

She didn’t speak for a while, and Tywin stewed in his own thoughts. For once, he was glad that his daughter was intelligent and not a simpering fool. “Ned Stark questioned Joffrey’s claim to the throne,” she said finally. “You want to _crown_ him? He should feel lucky just to escape the South with his head.”

 

“The Northerners are the reason the Riverlands have joined this mess,” said Tywin. “When they leave, the Riverlands will not stay for long. We can fight the numbers then. The stories about Stark have turned the men into lily-livered fools, they quake in their boots when his wolf howls at night. He needs to go.”

 

“And you would have him be the king of the North for that?”

 

“Just be happy that the Riverlands do not wish to be free of the Iron Throne too,” said Tywin drily. “If they start with all that nonsense about wanting the Stark boy as their king, we will be in greater trouble.”

 

“Oh, there’s some trouble left to be had?” Cersei was spitting venom.

 

Tywin frowned. “Not a lot more, I am afraid. We are surrounded on all sides, and the Northern brutes are the only ones I can pay to leave.”

 

“Their price is too high.”

 

“So we give them the damned frozen North,” said Tywin, his patience dwindling. “We let them go back to their dark and dreary lands, to fucking their horses in the cold and moan about the Wall.” He took a deep breath when he realized he was shouting. “Let them go, and then one day, when they aren’t looking, we can attack them. Now is not the time to picking fights. It’s time to resolve them.”

 

“Then ask the Northerners to stand and fight for us,” said Cersei.

 

In response, Tywin Lannister just laughed. No other answer was necessary.

* * *

The raven came from Riverrun in the early hours of the morning, before dawn, screeching and circling the tents. Grey Wind sat up, which scared the bird into Catelyn’s tent. She sat up, her heart pounding from a nightmare, and reached out a hand to find out what news had been important enough to send during the night.

 

Her fingers were stiff, old wounds troublesome in the morning, and she agitated the raven in the process. But her mood changed dramatically when she read the words. Forgetting her state of undress, she ran to Robb’s tent, bare feet squelching in the mud, her thin nightgown billowing indecently behind her.

 

“Robb!” she exclaimed, and her boy woke up at once, his sword at the ready before his eyes opened. “Arya! They found Arya!” She began to sob as he ran to her.

 

Robb was talking, his voice rising as he asked questions. There was a commotion outside, but Catelyn couldn’t think, couldn’t form words out of sheer relief. She thrust the letter blindly at him, and he moved to the single candle in his tent in order to read it. Catelyn hugged the wolf and cried.

 

Arya had made her way to Winterfell somehow, keeping off the Kingsroad. She had posed as a boy, apparently, and was home safe by now. They had tried sending Robb ravens, but they didn’t know where he was--the army had made haste to King’s Landing. Many of the ravens had never returned, until one of them finally reached Riverrun. Edmure had chosen raven instead of horse to carry the news to Catelyn.

 

Even as his bannermen began to gather, Robb laughed. He laughed as the tears rolled down his cheek, explaining in short bursts, his heart feeling lighter than it had in months. His sister was safe. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Only three of Robb’s bannermen knew that Arya was safe, and he forbade them to tell the others. “We tell no one,” he said. “Word must not reach the Lannisters. Let them think I want something they can’t give. I want to see panic in Tywin Lannister’s eyes. I want to see him beg.”

 

The Greatjon laughed, and gave his word. Lord Karstark and Dacey Mormont nodded as they smiled.

 

Catelyn was too excited to sleep after. She urged Robb to break his fast with her. There wasn’t much to eat, but the stale bread and fruit was enough. The day, when it breaks, seemed brighter and more wonderful to her.

 

“We must put pressure on Tywin Lannister,” she said as Robb sat down next to her. “I will write to Bran, tell him not to spread news of Arya. He will keep it a secret. He is a smart boy.”

 

“I will send word to the castle today,” said Robb. “Tell Tywin he needs to find her, or we will attack. Renly’s men grow restless. They want to fight.”

 

“Let them,” said Catelyn. “What do our own men want?”

 

“They want to go home,” said Robb. “Winter is coming, and they need to prepare.”

 

“Then that is what we do. We will make our excuses. I will tell Renly we have to leave, Tywin is threatening to end your father’s life.” She smiled. “Your father will not like our lies.”

 

“He will like how we saved so many lives,” said Robb. “He will like how Tywin scampers to find Arya.” He paused for a second, thinking. “Won’t he?”

 

“You know your father better than that,” said Catelyn. “When you send the messenger to King’s Landing, ask for an audience with your father and sister, okay? Tell him that you and I wish to see him.”

 

“Yes, mother,” said Robb with a smile.

* * *

Lord Stark had been given a bath and fresh clothes for his meeting with his family. It was clear, as he entered the room, that he was in a wealth of anguish, all pain easily traceable to spending the last few months in a dank dungeon. He looked smaller than he had to Robb, but he wasn’t sure if that was because he had grown a few inches since seeing his father last or because of his father’s poor health. He didn’t feel older or taller. He felt like a child again.

 

Lord Eddard hugged his children hard. A few of the bannermen had insisted on coming, and they cheered greatly upon seeing him, but he ignored them as he hugged Robb and Sansa. Had he thought he would get the chance ever again?

 

“I am so proud of you,” he whispered in Robb’s ear.

 

The bannermen all cheered when he kissed Catelyn, making them both laugh. Sansa didn’t crack a smile. She looked tired beyond her years, her eyes swollen and red, her spirit hidden behind dead eyes. Robb missed her prattle, for once.

 

After that silent reunion, they sat down and talked of war.

 

Ned Stark was adamant that they tell Tywin Lannister that Arya had been found. He argued about it long and hard, and won simply because he was the head of the family and the man who made the decisions. He was still surprised with the speed and strength with which Robb had marched South, but he was reluctant to go home just yet. Stannis Baratheon should have their army to command, and their support. Catelyn had promised the support to Renly Baratheon.That was, of course, if Robert slipped away in his sleep. There was no hope that he would wake up, but there had barely been hope for Bran either. Ned had known miracles in his life. Either way, they had to stay, had to chose a side and fight for it. That was the honorable thing to do.

“Northmen will die,” argued Robb.

 

“In the service of the realm,” said Ned. “In the service of the crown.”

 

“The _Southern_ crown,” Robb reminded him gently. “ _You_ are the King in the North, father. _You_ are the crown the North looks up to now.”

 

Lord Stark’s expression curdled. “I have no need of crowns,” he muttered. "Stannis Baratheon is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and he shall have all of our support. Our army is large enough to make a difference to his cause, to help him sit on the throne."

 

"Father..."

 

"Have you written to him? Have you had word?"

 

"Yes," said Catelyn, her expression bitter. "We did write to him, explaining how your insistence on Stannis getting his crown led to your imprisonment. We explained that we would be loyal to his cause, should he chose to join forces with us. Do you know what he said in reply?" Ned shook his head, vaguely surprised by the anger in his wife's face. "He told us to bend the knee and pledge allegiance to him, to forget the dream of an independent North, and to kill his brother for him, as a gesture of fealty."

 

"Kill his--? No," said Ned. His head was beginning to hurt. Stannis Baratheon was a just man, an honest man. He was what the seven kingdoms needed, now that there were no proper heirs to Robert. He had known Stannis Baratheon since they were boys. What was happening to the world?

 

"Renly needs our support too," said Catelyn. "He is certain to win the war with nearly all of the seven kingdoms behind him. The Tyrells have spoken for him, as have the Riverlands--"

 

"Renly is not the true king!" lamented Ned. "His brother is." For a while, nobody said anything. Their lord was a stubborn man, they knew, specially when it came to his view on the honorable thing to do. "We can declare for Stannis, tell him we cannot kill Renly. But we will give him men."

 

 

"He won't give up the North after the war, Father, as Renly has agreed to do," Robb reminded him in a quiet voice.

 

"The North has been under the command of the Iron Throne for the last three hundred years," replied Ned. "We don't need independence."

 

"Father," said Robb on a sigh. He sounded like a man talking to a petulant child. "The men have gathered behind me for the independence of their land, not to make certain the right man sits on the Iron Throne. They will not like this." Behind him, the bannermen began to murmur in agreement. They would not fight for a Southern king who would take away their newfound freedom. Renly was a better bet.

 

"You are pledged to fight for me," said Ned, his ire rising.

 

"Aye, my Lord," said the Greatjon. "For you, not for some perfumed prick who wants us to crawl to him, wait on him hand and foot!"

 

"We have the greater number," grumbled Lord Glover. "He should be _begging_ us, not the other way round."

 

"We are sworn to serve the crown," insisted Ned.

 

"And we are rebelling against the child sitting atop it," replied Robb.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Catelyn from where she sat, cradling her daughter to her breast. Sansa hadn’t spoken yet. “The bannermen all heard the offer, which was exactly what Tywin wanted. They will not fight anymore. Why should they sacrifice their sons any longer? There is no need, this isn’t their kingdom anymore.”

 

And the honorable Lord Eddard Stark had nothing to say to that.

* * *

“We _could_ join the houses by blood,” said Tyrion.

 

It took Cersei several seconds to understand what he meant. She stared at him blankly, this abomination she was saddled with, this blight on her life that would not die. When she realized he meant to marry Myrcella to the barbarians, to send her north to spend her days shivering in rags, she screamed at him. There were no words to her rage, but he understood her perfectly.

 

“You monster!” she said finally. “Myrcella is my only daughter! Do you really think I will let you sell her like some common whore?”

 

“Myrcella is a princess,” said Tyrion, his eyes darting between Cersei and their father. “Now she will be a queen. Some would say she was born for this.”

 

“To live in the frozen pit at the end of the world? To never smile again, always cold?”

 

“The North is the safest place for her,” said Tyrion patiently. “She will be a queen, and currently, the North is the strongest in the seven kingdoms.”

 

“Are you mad? The Starks loathe us,” spat Cersei. “They have brought an army to this city, and you think they will treat Myrcella with love?”

 

“We need them to leave,” said Tywin. “The armies from the Riverlands will run back to their marshes too, as soon as the wolves leave.”

 

“Then let us wed that simpering idiot of theirs to Joffrey,” said Cersei. “She’s wanted that all along.”

 

“They won’t hear of it,” said Tyrion. “We shouldn’t even mention this terrible idea to them. Sansa still bears the marks that Joffrey gave her. They are not fools.”

 

“She will be a hostage!”

 

“She will be family,” argued Tyrion. Where Cersei was slowly getting hysterical, Tyrion was calm and collected. It was the only way to make his father listen.

 

“It is a good idea,” said Tywin. “We will give them a queen, combine the houses.”

 

“The girl can marry Tommen,” said Cersei, her desperation making her voice shrill.

 

Lord Tywin was getting more and more annoyed with his only daughter. He could understand why she was being so stupid--she was a woman, they were created in that way. Her children were important to her. But he could think on the matter with a clear head, and he could see what she could not.

 

“The Prince in the North has brought a giant army to our doorstep. No spare would do. Tommen is a prince, yes, but he is not the king, and may never be. The king is unwed, we can’t offer Tommen. It would be seen as an insult.”

 

“You won’t get away with this,” said Cersei, and now her voice had gone low. She was seething, and her anger was cold and quiet. She stared at Tyrion, her mouth twisting in distaste. “I won’t let you get away with this!”

 

“It’s done,” said Tywin.

 

“No!” screamed Cersei, rounding on her father, quick as a snake. “She’s _my_ daughter!”

 

“The Starks are honorable,” said Tyrion, trying to placate her. He wondered what that argument said about his own nephew. “They will keep her safe. Ned Stark won’t let the young wolf do something stupid.”

 

“Get out!” screamed Cersei, her back to him. “Just get out!”

 

Tyrion slipped out of the room. He had put his idea forward, and his father had accepted. There was nothing more for him to do. Of course, Cersei would exact her revenge somehow. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

 


	4. Live in my new world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter name is sponsored by Daenerys Stormborn.

The entire city woke up at the crack of dawn the next day, when the bells began to toll. Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was dead.

 

Deep inside the Red Keep, Ned Stark had slept in a bed for the first time in months. He awoke with the wisps of a memory still stuck in his head, the horrible clanging making his head pound. Somehow, he was more tired than he had been when he slipped under the sheets.  _ Promise me, Ned, _ his dream whispered, and he rose to go to the Godswood. He would pray for the soul of his dearest friend, and think of what to do next. He felt too weary for this game of thrones.

 

While Lord Stark prayed, his son discussed things with his captor.

 

Tywin Lannister’s smile didn’t reach his eyes when he heard of Arya’s safe arrival at Winterfell. His courtesies were proper, and his relief was genuine, but everyone knew that he didn’t care a whit for the girl. Robb let him wax lyrical about the odds and his sister’s bravery, though. He had learned the importance of pretense.

 

Lord Tywin’s offer of Myrcella’s hand in marriage surprised him. He hadn’t thought of it at all; and he barely remembered the sweet-natured girl from months ago, but he understood Lord Tywin’s reasons immediately. The North was large, and it was well capable of marching on the crown. Lord Tywin wanted the two kingdoms joined by blood before they were broken apart, ensuring Robb’s alliance to curb any future wars.

 

Robb decided that he would discuss the match with his parents.

 

“Does the King in the North need permission to wed?” scoffed Tywin Lannister.

 

“My father lives, Lord Tywin,” Robb reminded him mildly. “ _ He _ is the King, and I am his oldest son. My marriage is an important decision for the good of the North. Better alliances can be offered. Taking a Lannister for a wife is not without its dangers, as we know. ”

 

“My granddaughter is a Baratheon,” said Tywin hotly.

 

Robb’s smile was feral. “If you say so. We will also need a royal declaration from you, stating that all my father did was question the legitimacy of Cersei’s children. You will need to mention my father’s loyalty to the late king, putting to rest the rumors that he is a traitor.”

 

Lord Tywin’s carefully controlled expression started to twitch. “I cannot do that,” he said in a voice that was low and tightly controlled. “I cannot take back the allegations--”

 

“You will,” said Robb. “You would not want your granddaughter married into the home of a traitor.”

 

Robb knew his father will be more at ease in the mud and grime of the camps instead of the feather bed they had granted him--after his son brought an army beyond their walls. He declined Lord Tywin’s offer of rooms for himself and his men, and insisted that Sansa and their father return with him instantly. Jaime Lannister stood right outside the walls as an exchange.

 

“Lord Stark is injured,” said Tywin.

 

“We know,” said Robb with a snarl. “And he has been in a dungeon for a few months. I daresay the camps will be improvement enough.”

 

And that was how Lord Stark finally left the Red Keep, his daughter clutched to his side.

 

In the end, the bannermen drank nearly all the wine they had, toasting their new king and his health. His father was tired and unhappy, but glad to know the children were safe. By the end of the night, his mother was even able to make him smile. Even Sansa looked relieved. She wouldn’t let herself wander away from her family, and the grateful nod she gave him from across the tent made her look wiser beyond her years.

 

They had all wised up, it seemed.

 

The next day was spent explaining his actions to his father, retelling all that had happened on the road. He felt a strange sense of accomplishment as his father gazed at him proudly. He knew that Ned Stark was a man of few words, and he didn’t mind. He did not need his father to praise him. His warm smile was more than enough.

 

The knights of the Vale, as well as Lord Edmure Tully, wished to support the cause of Renly Baratheon and seat him on the throne. Ned disagreed, and he had said so several times throughout the night, but his words fell on deaf ears. He was tired of all the fighting, of the schemes and the backstabbing that was politics in the South. Robert was dead, with no trueborn children after him. He decided that the war between the Baratheons and the Lannisters was not his to fight. He was going home.

 

Lord Stark spent the entire afternoon discussing terms with Lord Tywin. The riverlands were going to stay and fight, but the Northmen were leaving with their new king and his family. Ned could see that Lord Tywin didn’t like that very much, but in truth, he did not command Lord Tully’s men. That wasn’t his fight either. They ended up discussing the royal decree that would crown him king, about the lands that would be his. It felt surreal. This was not the way of the Starks, hadn’t been for more than three hundred years. But now he was king of the North, from the border of the New Gift to the southern edge of the Neck far to the south. He hoped the Gods would give him strength. As Robert had well taught him, becoming a king was easy. Being a good one was far too difficult.

 

Catelyn wanted the princess to leave the South with them. The men were itching for a good fight, for the long march home, for  _ something _ , but Catelyn had convinced Ned to stay until they could take the princess with her. Cersei wanted the girl to stay in King’s Landing till she bled. Catelyn wondered what kind of mother would want her child to stay in a land at the brink of war, but then again, she never did understand Cersei.

 

The royal decree hadn’t been signed yet, but the mood in the camp was jubilant. Robb walked around, talking to his men, while his father sulked. Ned’s mood soured every time someone referred to him as a king, but his family ignored it. They were living in the mud, eating stale food and sleeping fretfully, but they were happy. They were together, and each one of them had learned the importance of living together the hard way.

 

When the raven came from Winterfell, Ned just stared at the message blankly for a few seconds. It was so absurd that he wondered if it was a prank of sorts, the boys trying to get them home early, but he knew Rickon couldn’t write yet, and Bran was far too smart, too dutiful to do this.

 

“Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell,” he said without preamble as Robb entered his tent. The boy had been laughing at something the men had been talking about outside, but he sobered instantly. Ned saw the confusion on his face.

 

“Taken Winter--?” Robb stuttered to a halt as he realized. The anger that straightened his spine and darkened his features made his wolf snarl a warning. The wolf was a giant by now, almost reaching his son’s shoulder. It was frightening to look at. “I sent him to--”

 

“I know,” said Ned with a sigh. “You told me. He is a stupid man, son. A boy, desperate to prove he’s a man. He believes we are laying siege on King’s Landing here, that we can’t leave because we are stuck fighting.”

 

“We didn’t send word to Bran and Rickon yet? About what has happened? I thought Mother wrote to tell them we were coming home.”

 

“She did,” said Ned. “They must have hid the news well. Unlike Theon, they are true Northern boys, smart for their age. Maester Luwin must have told them not to speak of us. He’s sent a separate letter, telling me they have all bent the knee, agreeing to serve Theon as the new lord of Winterfell. For now.”

 

Robb nodded, one hand stroking his wolf’s pelt to calm him. “Father, I am sorry. I--”

 

“Did the right thing,” Ned completed in that direct way of his. “What you did was the thing to do, Robb. His father wouldn’t have listened to anyone else. This is on him, not you.”

 

“Bran and Rickon?”

 

“Are safe,” said Ned. He was silent for a while. “Ser Rodrick has been killed.” His heart was heavy. There had been too much death recently, too many good men lost to the South and it’s treachery. Perhaps separating the North was a good idea after all. He would have to sit down and discuss terms with Joffrey Baratheon--and his grandfather--soon, but maybe it would all work out for the best.

 

“Does Mother know?”

 

“She left to pray for his soul.” They both understood why she wasn’t praying for her boys. They were not the ones who were in danger. “Tell the bannermen we leave tomorrow at dawn. They have all of today to get ready.”

 

Robb nodded. Theon was about to get a nasty surprise.

 

The Princess Myrcella did not leave with them, for the situation did not allow it. Even Catelyn refused to take a child to a seized holdfast. Rumors flew as soon as the Northern army marched. It was said that Queen Cersei had begun her scheming and plotting already. The little Imp had almost drowned in his own bathtub, and he had fled across the narrow sea in fear of his sister.

 

It was said that the King had raged and screamed before signing the royal mandate of his sister’s wedding. Two handmaidens had mysteriously disappeared from the castle that night, one of them a redhead. Sansa had said a silent prayer for the girls, not for them to be found quickly, but for their souls. Robb didn’t ask how she knew they were dead.

* * *

Theon Greyjoy had gotten news that they were coming home, as Ned had intended. He had already sent word ahead to Winterfell, urging Bran to announce that any ironborn that wanted to leave were welcome to do so. It had been Robb’s idea, and it had worked. By the time the Northern army arrived at Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy was in their dungeons, bound and chained by his own men.

Bran and Rickon were in the courtyard, with Bran sitting atop his horse, awaiting their return. The boys had grown, more than Ned had anticipated. He had spent an year serving Robert, and then a few more months in the dungeons of the Red Keep, but his sons made him feel as though it had been longer than that.

Rickon ran to him as soon as he dismounted, his eyes wet. And just like that, Ned was home. Both his boys were crying, and Catelyn was too. The men shifted uneasily, but he didn’t mind. He felt like weeping too.

He didn’t see Arya until she was at his side, her head buried in the crook of his am, her hands clutching him desperately. She had appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly he remembered all the cats he had seen his daughter chase. She had learned something from Syrio Forel, apparently. He owed the man for his daughter’s life.

“I’m sorry,” Arya said against his chest, her words drowning in sobs. “I am so sorry, Father. I should have helped you, I should have helped you escape, I should’ve--”

“You did exactly what you should have done,” Ned replied. “You  _ survived,  _ Arya. All on your own.” His daughter looked strange with her hair all shorn off, but it was a very small price to pay for her life. “I am very proud of you,” he said. “It wasn’t your duty to save me.”

Arya’s teary eyes slid towards Robb. “You look all big and grown,” she complained. Robb laughed and hugged her tight.

Catelyn was whispering to Bran, awkwardly clutching one of his useless legs as she talked. He was still atop his horse, while she stood next to it. There had been numerous times in the past year that he hadn’t believed he would live to see his son up and about. He nodded to his son and walked up to him. Bran tried valiantly to keep his tears in check, to act like the little lord he was. When had his children grown so much? Had he taught them all this? Had he really been that good a father? His children were making him proud, even little Rickon.

His duty and his anger both compelled him to deal with Theon first. He turned to ask Robb to bring the boy out of the dungeons, but his son had already left. Hodor was leading his tired horse to the stable, and Robb was leading Theon to the middle of the courtyard. Robb knew his father. Ned smiled.

There were angry questions from Robb, but Ned just felt a deep disappointment. He had tried to do right by the little boy who had come to Winterfell all those years ago. He had taught him beside his own sons, had tried to remove the poison of the Iron Islands from his blood. It hadn’t worked, and Ned didn’t know who to blame.

The entire household gathered, all of them ready to see justice done. Even little Rickon wouldn’t leave. He was five years old now, and he wanted to stay, so Ned allowed it. Catelyn didn’t argue at all. He had thought she would want to convince their son that a beheading was just too brutal to watch, but she didn’t say a word. This was Theon Greyjoy on his knees. He had betrayed them all, and now he was snivelling, sobbing as he clutched wretchedly at Ned’s knees. Robb was frowning in disgust, but Ned just felt sorry for the lad.

There was no place for him anymore, though. He could not be sent back to his father alive, and Ned could never trust him again. Besides, Ser Rodrick’s wife and daughters would expect justice.

And so King Eddard Stark began his reign by beheading his treacherous ward.

When it was done, Ned ordered his body to be taken to the Iron Islands. Whatever atrocities Balon Greyjoy had committed, he deserved the right to the bones of his own son.

  
Weary in both body and mind, Ned decided to have an early supper and go to bed. Tomorrow was a new day, and Winterfell needed him to rebuild. There were appointments to be made, and tough decisions lay ahead.


	5. I am a Lionness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter is sponsored by Cersei.

It sometimes surprised Myrcella, how most of life seemed to happen to her without any of her consent.

 

She knew something had happened as soon as her mother stepped into her chambers. Cersei Lannister had never been a particularly warm mother to her daughter, which made her appearance so early in the morning a strange peculiarity. Myrcella knew there was a war to be fought, with her uncle Renly and her uncle Stannis fighting for Joffrey’s throne. Her mother had other things to do, like try and manage Joffrey. Myrcella knew that the concept of her other children was infinitely more appealing to her than the reality. She loved them, of course she did, but she didn’t  _ know  _ them.

 

“Mother,” said Myrcella with a soft smile even as her pulse quickened. “Good morrow. I had not expected you.”

 

With a regal nod and a little wave of her hand, her mother dismissed Rosamund and her handmaidens. Myrcella wanted to protest. She was hungry, and she needed her handmaidens to fix her hair before she could break her fast. She didn’t utter a single sound.

 

“Eddard Stark has sent for you,” said her mother as soon as they were alone. Even though Myrcella had suspected, she felt her bowels turn to water. “He has finally reached his frozen shithole, and dealt with that little whelp who fashioned himself king of the castle behind their backs.” Her face was grim as she picked up Myrcella’s hairbrush. “It is time for you to leave.”

 

There was nothing for Myrcella to say. Her mother would not be interested in her fear, and Myrcella knew pleading for a reprieve was useless.

 

Her mother started to brush her hair, her hands gentle. “You are my only daughter,” she said. “I had thought I had more time to teach you... but that little monster would much rather ship you off  _ right now, _ like a slab of meat to distract the wolves from the carnage of this war.” Her hand had tightened in Myrcella’s hair, making her wince, but she didn’t make a sound. Her mother’s gaze was far away.

 

When Cersei’s eye met hers in the beaten metal mirror, she took a deep breath. “You are to leave in three days,” she said. Her hands were gentle again. She combed as she thought, and Myrcella was suddenly saddened by how much she was going to miss her family. This was the only life she had known, and now it was time to grow up.

 

“Remember who you are,” said her mother. “You are a Lannister, and that means something in the world. You are a Southern lady, and you will act as such.” The hand tugging her braids into place started to hurt her again. “Do you hear me?”

 

“Yes, mother,” said Myrcella. Her eyes were beginning to tear up, but she knew that she was supposed to be quiet and listen. She knew her mother was a clever woman, and she had only three days to learn how to survive in the North.

 

“Let them know that the lion is not afraid of a mere wolf. Keep your head up. There’s a great power available to every woman, Myrcella. If you use that place between your legs right, you can own the world.”

 

Myrcella didn’t understand. She knew what her mother was talking about, in a vague way, but how was she supposed to…? “I don’t understand, Mother,” she said finally.

 

Her mother laughed, but the sound of it was agony. There was no mirth in the laugh, and all it did was hide her mother’s pain. When her mother finally inserted a pin in her hair to keep the braids in place, the pin broke through the skin of her scalp before it settled. Her mother didn’t even notice, and Myrcella didn’t bring attention to it. Her hands were curled into fists in her lap. “Your young wolf brought an army to this city,” she said. “He is proven in battle. Men like that have appetites, like your father does. Find out what he wants, and soon. And then you can use his desires to own him.”

 

Myrcella’s hair was done. Her mother stepped back and turned her around to look in her eyes. “Never forget, my little lioness.The men have their weapons and their war. That sweet honey between your young legs is yours. Use it right.”

 

Even though her words scared her more than they assured her, all Myrcella wanted in that moment was to hug her.  _ I am afraid,  _ she wanted to say.

 

“Yes, mother,” she said instead, as her mother left in a flurry of skirts. 

* * *

Catelyn had wondered if perhaps it was too late to talk to Robb. Night had fallen hours ago and the castle slept. He should be sleeping.

But he wasn’t.

There was light under his door, and she heard his faithful direwolf let out a warning before she knocked. She was glad for that wolf, more than he knew. She had hated those savage beasts when they first came into her home, but Robb, Arya and Bran all owed their lives to their wolves. She never wanted them away from her children ever again.

When Robb called her in, she was surprised to see he was still at his desk, going over plans for the strengthening of the garrison of Greywater Watch. It was the southern tip of their new kingdom, and needed men and supplies to defend it against the war raging in the South. Ned and Robb had been poring over plans all day.

“Mother,” said Robb in surprise as she opened the door and slipped inside. His direwolf lifted it’s head and stared at her from where it was lying on the bed. There barely seemed enough space for Robb to sleep in. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” she said, patting the air between them. He looked like a lord, somehow, with his confused frown and his desk strewn with papers. She sat next to his wolf, on the bed. It inched a little closer, so she scratched the huge head. “I just wanted to… ask how you were doing.”

“I am fine, Mother,” he said, the frown deepening. He got up to come sit next to her. “Father and I have agreed to give the command of the Neck to Howland Reed.”

“The crannogmen?” Catelyn wasn’t certain of their prowess in battle. How good can they be, with no knights and no stone castles?

“Moat Cailin will be repaired and fortified too, in time. Father believes Howland Reed to be a man of honour.” Catelyn nodded and didn’t say anything. “Politics is not why you have come to talk to me in the middle of the night, Mother,” said Robb. “What troubles you?”

“Are you happy, Robb?” asked Catelyn, watching his beloved face closely. “With the Princess Myrcella?”

“Any alliance with the South will be tremulous,” said Robb. “But the Princess is a good price to pay for the autonomy of the North.”

“That is not what I meant,” said Catelyn. When had her children grown up? Here was Robb, thinking of the realm when she was thinking of him. Bran had stopped griping about his future without legs, eager to learn everything he could. She had even spied Sansa comment on the workmanship of Arya’s skinny little sword. She wasn’t sure which one of the girls was more surprised by their sudden civility, but it had warmed her heart. “I meant you, Robb, not the realm. Are  _ you  _ happy with your choice of bride?”

“I don’t know her, Mother,” he insisted. “I have seen her, of course I have, but she’s a child. I don’t know the woman she will become.”

“But you will,” instructed Catelyn. “That girl is too young to be held accountable for the sins of her family, Robb. I want--”

“I know that!” And just like that, Robb was like an affronted boy again.

“I am trying to tell you what she must feel right now,” said Catelyn patiently. “She is leaving her home to come here, and heaven knows what sort of stories her vile mother has fed her about us. For all we know, she believes that malarkey about you turning into a wolf at night.”

Robb smiled wryly. “I understand, mother. I will be careful.”

“I want you to try to… talk to her,” said Catelyn. “You won’t have the time, I know that, but still. It won’t take a lot out of your day to show her some kindness, to build a friendship that you can later base your marriage on. She is just a girl. It will be difficult for her. The North seems strange to Southern ladies, and perhaps knowing you will assuage her fears about her married life. I never expected to marry your father, Robb. You know that. But I did, and we were friends as well as husband and wife. He was kind to me, and that made me give all that I was to him. That is all I want from you.” Her smile faltered. “And Robb...”

“Seven hells, there’s more!” Robb said in good-natured lament, smiling to take the sting out of his words. “I understand, Mother. I will be the perfect gentleman. I wasn’t planning on being a monster to her, you know?”

“I just wanted to say...” Catelyn felt her face heat up. He was her son, and she was amazed at how quickly he had grown up into a young man. But this needed to be said, and she had never been one to shy away from difficult situations. “Your… um, when you go visit the--the taverns and the… ladies of the night--”

“Mother!” Robb’s face was now redder than hers. He spluttered to find a suitable rebuke, making his wolf sit up and whine in the back of it’s throat. “We don’t need to--”

“Just make certain no rumors or stories make their way into the castle,” Catelyn said hurriedly, eager to get the topic done with. “None of the girls too. The Princess needn’t know of it all.” Robb mumbled something before focusing all his attention on running his hands through his wolf’s hair. He wouldn’t look into her eyes. Eager to leave, she nodded decisively, wondering if her face was still red. “Goodnight, son.”

“Goodnight, Mother,” said Robb. He sounded as eager to end the conversation as she did. 

Catelyn decided not to judge him for that.

* * *

Her mother had cried.

Myrcella had learnt early on that her mother’s emotions were cold and calculating, manifesting not as the tears she saw as a weakness but as the rage that she saw as strength. Myrcella’s mother was a very strong woman, and she loved and admired that about her. She wanted to be strong like her one day.

But Cersei Lannister had shed tears as Myrcella had been rowed to the waiting ship that would carry her to White Harbour. She had smiled through her tears, possibly for Myrcella’s benefit, but there had been no need. Myrcella hadn’t felt… anything as she left the only home she had ever known, all alone and travelling to a new, savage land. She knew what was happening. She wasn’t stupid, and she knew she was being married to the Winter Prince so that relations between the two realms could been strengthened. She was just… numb.

A part of her wanted to scream and rage hysterically at the injustice of being used as a pawn in a game she had no control over.  _ They hate me _ , she wanted to yell. _ They hate me and you don’t care. I am a payment, for your sins. _ She had done that the first time she had heard the news, crying even as she screamed into her pillow. But the time for that had passed. There was no stopping this alliance, and she was tired of it all. She was tired of the feelings she had been feeling since she had first heard of the treaty. Now, her mind was blank. She revelled in the emptiness, embraced it, for she was tired of feeling.

She hadn’t cried.

Her mother’s tears had strengthened her, in a way.  _ Don’t cry,  _ she wanted to tell her mother.  _ The tears won’t help. _

She remembered the wolves she had seen in Winterfell. They were said to be giants now, towering over men before they bit their throats out. Her betrothed was never away from his own, it was said. Rosamund had spent most of their travel telling her tales she had heard from the stablehands, of how the Prince turned into a wolf himself at night. Myrcella wasn’t sure she would be able to face the wolves at Winterfell. She was not a child anymore, but… they scared her.

And yet, strangely, the more they sailed, the more Myrcella forgot of the fate that awaited her. For two months they had sailed on the _ Seaswift _ , and by the time they reached White Harbour, she had started to feel strangely at home atop the beautiful ship.

When they landed, Rosamund held onto her tightly. Mrycella soon saw what had scared her: there were men waiting for them, eight of them. They were armoured men with the merman banners that she knew to be that of House Manderly. Ser Arys talked to them, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes wary. There was so much commotion that Myrcella couldn’t hear what was being said, so she looked around instead, trying to shrug off her friend’s arm. There were people bustling about, their gazes curious but polite as they stared at the rich Southern girl amongst them. The smell of fish was strong, and Myrcella tried to smile at a little boy who was staring at her dress.

“Welcome to the North, Your Highness,” said the tall man who seemed to be in charge. His gray eyes were kind, and Myrcella curtsied. He smiled at her, making his grey beard quiver. “You are very welcome here, to White Harbour. You must have had a difficult journey, so we will not waste breath and time on words. A hot meal and a feather bed await you, my lady.” By the time he was done, servants had already brought a palanquin forward.

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Myrcella. None of them had been expecting this courtesy. Ser Arys had been ready to book them rooms at some inn. They had barely expected an escort once they neared Winterfell. She knew that the Winter King held the upper hand, agreeing to take in a princess whose legitimacy was whispered about in the streets. Myrcella had heard the ugly whispers, the taunts shouted at mother whenever she left the keep. She hadn’t dared to ask.

“I am no Lord,” said the man with a laugh. “My name is Marlon Manderly, my lady, and you may holler it out loud if you need something.” He turned to the men behind him. “Well, what are you lot waiting for? Turn around!”

Grateful for the tall knight’s no-nonsense manner, Myrcella slipped into the palanquin. Rosamund slid in after her, and they made their way up to the New Castle. Unexpected hospitality awaited them.


	6. The time to be brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella arrives at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter is meant to remind you of the conversation between Bran and Ned, where Ned says that the only time to be brave is when you are afraid. Robb mentions the conversation in the show, talking about Ned with Talisa.
> 
> 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'  
> 'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him.
> 
> I found [this](https://qph.ec.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-29a98c93ca92d49bfb046f81b9bf0a8a-c) brilliant map of Winterfell on Quora, and will be using it as reference.

 

“Myrcella Baratheon has arrived at White Harbour,” Ned told his family. They were all gathered to break their fasts together, as they did everyday now. Recent events had brought them even closer as a family.

For a while, no one spoke. Catelyn watched Robb closely for a reaction, but he didn’t look very concerned.

“She will need a big, warm cloak,” Rickon declared as he fed his eggs to his direwolf under the table. The creatures were getting too big to crowd beneath the table, but Shaggydog had won the honor this morning.

“I am sure she has several, Rickon,” said Bran. “She won’t be lacking for  _ clothes _ , I think.”

“I assume we asked for her to be escorted?” asked Robb after a few seconds.

“Yes,” said the king. “The Manderlys will host them for two days, at our request, and they will set out for Winterfell after that.”

“Will they be travelling by horse?” asked Arya, her food momentarily forgotten. She seemed more excited to see Myrcella than she had been last time, and it made Catelyn smile.

“Yes,” said Ned. “The princess seems to have requested it.”

“That means it will take them a little more than two weeks to reach us yet,” said Arya. “I wonder how good a rider she is.”

“I am sure she is very accomplished,” said Sansa.

Catelyn took a fortifying breath. Experience had taught her to be ready for a fight whenever her daughters got into a discussion. There was certainly a quip about Sansa’s reluctance to ride coming, and then they would discuss Arya’s unladylike manners.

Arya didn’t say anything at all, however. She actually  _ smiled  _ at Sansa. What was the world coming to? It was like that incident with the sword all over again. No one knew where Arya had gotten the thing from, but it suited her. That sword had tasted blood, and it was one of the reasons her daughter was alive. Catelyn had allowed Arya to keep it, and the girl carried it around everywhere. Strangely enough, no one minded.

“I have written to the motherhouse in Oldtown,” Catelyn informed her husband. “For a Septa. There should be someone suitable here before the princess gets here.”

“Father, I want another dancing master,” said Arya.

Sansa barely managed to stop herself from spraying Rickon with her water. She coughed and spluttered as she rounded on her sister. “ _ You  _ want to learn how to dance? Haven’t you had enough?”

  
Arya grinned fiercely. Her eyes sought out her father’s, and she held his gaze as she replied. “No, I haven’t. Not yet. There’s so much more to learn.”   


* * *

 

Myrcella was certain that they were travelling to the very end of the world. Snow covered most of the Kingsroad as they travelled North, even prompting men to dismount and clear it away at places. She could see her own breath, and the cold was so sharp that it seemed to sneak its way beneath the many layers she was wrapped in to settle in her bones.

 

She would have to get used to it.

 

Ser Arys and Rosamund were on either side of her, and Ser Marlon rode just slightly ahead. Ser Arys could sense her boredom, and tried to make conversation. He was good at it, but Myrcella was sore and tired, and her patience was running out with the stale, courtly courtesies. Rosamund was even more miserable than she was, sullen and twitchy atop her horse. She barely spoke a word.

 

They had ridden out with ten riders, holding aloft both the Manderly banner and the Stark direwolf as they rode. Her belongings were in the carriage creaking along behind them. She had tried to steer clear of relaxing in the carriage, even though Rosamund took frequent breaks. The Northmen were no Dothraki, but they were tough men, and Myrcella wanted to show them that she could be tough too, if the need arose.

 

The Northern men that trailed behind them were silent.

 

The men weren’t necessarily being mean to her. They were Northmen, strong and stoic and hard, and they had no need of idle chatter. They were quiet around her more often than not, but she had made it a point to remember all of their names, surprising them. They talked enough amongst themselves, she had heard them be loud and boisterous in the inns every night, but apparently the best policy in the North was to ignore Southerners and hope they went away. She doubted any of them had said more than fifty words to her in the twenty days they had ridden together.

 

The cold was ever present, but it was refreshing. The air that chilled her chest with every breath was crisp and clear, and Winterfell was looming in front of them. Winterfell seemed to have grown since the last time she had seen it. It seemed more menacing somehow, dark and solemn as it stood. She had somehow thought that Winterfell was smaller than the Red Keep, being so old, but it looked enormous to her. Rosamund had gasped when they had climbed a slope seen it clearly for the first time, making Ser Marlon laugh. The walls looked strong enough to withstand a hundred sieges, something she hadn’t noticed before, the cold grey stone dignified and dutiful, just like the men who resided within. Even as they watched, men rode up from the castle, the direwolf racing on their banners as they drew close. Ser Marlon called out to them when they were close enough.

 

“Welcome back to Winterfell, Princess Myrcella,” said the man leading the honour guard. His horse pawed the ground, anxious to run back home. “I am Ser Donnel Locke,” he added. “I am the new captain of His Grace’s household guard.”

 

He looked terribly young to lead a household guard.  _ My mother’s men killed the last one,  _ thought Myrcella. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful thing to remind these Northmen about, so she didn’t say anything, smiling instead. “It is an honour to meet you, Ser,” she said, dipping her head. She hoped her smile didn’t seem too fake.

 

“If you would follow us, Princess,” he said with a much warmer smile than hers, “you are eagerly awaited.”

 

And then they were galloping through the place they called Winter Town. It looked deserted to her, with long wooden tables and stalls standing naked in front of rows of small and neat houses built of log and undressed stone. There was barely a soul to be seen, though Myrcella did spy movement inside a few of the homes. No one came out to greet her. It was strange to see, a town without people, spooky and silent. Crows took flight as the horse hooves sounded, indignant at being disturbed. Myrcella looked up, tracking their flight till her gaze was settled on Winterfell. Her new home. She tried and failed to drum up some enthusiasm.

 

And then they were at the eastern giant gate, with two towers looming at either side of it. Stark banners fluttered in the wind, seemingly snapping at her. The gates were open, and Myrcella could see people waiting in the courtyard beyond. She took a deep breath as they rode through.

 

The Winter King stood with his family and household, awaiting her arrival. Once again, Myrcella was surprised by the hospitality of the Starks. Even the crippled boy was waiting for her, sitting atop the back of a towering man with a simpleton’s smile. She hadn’t expected to keep a king waiting, specially not one that had recently spent time in the dungeons of the Red Keep. She wondered vaguely if his leg still bothered him. I had been months since he had come out of the dungeons. He was smiling at her, warm and welcoming. She tried to smile back, and waited for one of the stable hands to assist her down from her saddle.

 

Robb Stark stood next to his father, tall and solemn. He was looking at Sir Marlon, having some silent conversation that she wasn’t privy to. She stared at him for a while, unable to help herself, trying to see herself next to him, to see him as her husband. He was handsome, certainly, with his sculpted jaw and the bright blue eyes. He was so much taller than her, and terribly  _ old _ , with a full beard and strong, broad shoulders. She would look a child next to him, and his men would mock her.

 

He must have felt her gaze on him, for he gave a final nod to the gallant knight and turned to look at her. His stare wasn’t tempered with a smile. Myrcella blushed deeply, and turned gratefully to the man who stepped forward to pluck her from the saddle.

 

She realized suddenly that no one else was smiling at her. The rest of the household stood there, staring at her, their gazes hard and stony. She realized with a jolt that these people were here because they had to be, not because they liked the new Princess in their midst.  _ A bastard Princess _ , said a mean voice in her head.  _ A bastard born of incest, they call you. _

 

“Your Grace,” she said once she stood in front of Lord--King--Eddard. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

 

“Welcome to Winterfell, child,” said the King. 

 

Myrcella was trying very hard not to turn to her head left, to look at the man standing next to the king. What did he think of her? Was he angry with her already? Was he here because he had to be? She studiously kept her gaze forward. It wouldn’t do to anger her betrothed by gaping at him. “It is good to see you, Your Grace,” she said to Lady Stark instead. She was smiling too, warm and inviting. Myrcella found herself smiling back.

 

“These are troubled times,” said Lady Stark. “I am glad you could come here, to safety, away from the war.”  _ You will be safe here,  _ her words meant.  _ You will not be harmed. _

 

Myrcella’s smile grew wider. Ser Arys and Rosamund stepped forward, and she introduced them one by one. “Ser Arys Oakheart, my sword shield, and my handmaiden Rosamund.” Rosamund curtsied, her cheeks aflame. She didn’t mind Myrcella omitting her last name.

 

“You are both welcome,” said Lady Stark. “Truly. You must come with us, now, Your Highness. These formalities can wait. I have had a bath ready for you upstairs in your new quarters, and I daresay it will feel like heaven after that long and dusty ride. Did you ride at dawn?” She started to walk along to the Great Keep as she spoke, and Myrcella followed. Everyone else took it as their cue to move, and started to disperse.

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said.

 

“A long ride then,” said the Queen. “Your things will be taken to your room soon, child. Bathe and rest, and we will have someone ask you down to sup with us later.” Her steps were brisk, giving Myrcella little time to take in her surroundings. She didn’t mind. She  _ was  _ rather tired, and a hot bath would get the chill out of her bones. Rosamund hurried after her, with Ser Arys not far behind. They must have made a curious sight as they climbed up the stairs.

 

She wasn’t given the same room she had been the last time she was here. The room she had been provided with was large and beautiful in a way Myrcella had not expected, and warmer than she had hoped. Her bed was a beautiful, inviting thing: Large enough for five of her, and covered with thick, warm furs.

 

But her attention was caught by the copper tub in front of the huge roaring fire. She sighed as she saw it, with steam rising off the surface of the water, seemingly inviting her into the warmth. She felt some of the weight of the day fall away as Rosamund took her dress off. There was no one else in her chambers, and she was glad for that. She wondered if the Queen had arranged it so. 

  
Once in the water, she settled her head back, breathing in the steam, her gaze on the fire dancing in front of her. For better or for worse, Winterfell was her home now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I know. We have all been waiting for a Robbcella interaction, right? I will be starting the next chapter with an interaction between those two, and then they will be conversing at supper. So… hang in there, guys. Hang in there.


	7. Cub amidst Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter, unfortunately, does not come from one of the characters. It should. But it doesn’t. I made it up. The dress featured in this chapter was found by Rosa, my dear @audlie45, even though it was a ridiculous time of day and my request for dresses was quite detailed. She did the photoshop magic on the dresses too, because she is awesome.

Myrcella had thought that she would have trouble falling asleep, but she slept like the dead. Her bed was the softest thing she had lain on in three months, and the furs were soft and inviting. In the end, Rosamund had to wake her up in time for supper, fretting over the dismal state of Myrcella’s hair and her puffy eyes almost before the princess woke up.

 

They fretted over her dresses, wondering what was the most appropriate one to wear to her first supper in her new home. The best seamstresses of King’s Landing had spent weeks preparing her new gowns--heavy dresses of spun wool and lavish embroidery that could withstand the dreary winters. Her mother had commissioned jewels to be placed in her dresses, so there were rubies and cloth of gold and heavy velvets adorned with emeralds to match her eyes. Rosamund brought the dresses forward one by one, but none seemed to suit Myrcella’s mood. There were butterflies in her stomach that seemed to get angrier as the sun dipped below the horizon. She didn’t want the Northerners to make fun of her lavish clothing. The Winter Queen hadn’t worn any jewels at all, she remembered.

 

In the end, she decided on the relatively simple [ dress ](https://s19.postimg.org/notjypoo3/Whats_App_Image_2017_03_18_at_3_31_47_PM.jpg)her uncle Tyrion had commissioned for her. He had fled King’s Landing soon after, and she had missed him when she sailed away from home, so she would wear it in his memory.

 

It was a dark, smokey grey, with a pattern of dark leaves adorning it. The simple neckline, bound in a patterned silver design, was lower than what she was used to, but that was the case with nearly everything she had now. It pushed her breasts--such as they were--up, creating the illusion that she wasn’t entirely flat. The only splash of colour came from the broad crimson undersleeves. The belt that accentuated her waist was gold inlaid with rubies, which matched the golden borders of her sleeves themselves.

 

Myrcella didn’t find anything simple enough in her jewellery, and nothing seemed to match the grey of her gown, so she decided not to wear anything. If the Queen didn’t wear any jewellery, she wouldn’t either. It wouldn’t do to anger her. Rosamund did put a silver butterfly comb in her hair, but Myrcella didn’t complain. She liked the way it’s ruby eyes glittered in the candlelight.

 

Rosamund was looking for matching slippers when a knock sounded on her door, startling princess and maid alike. Rosamund got up hastily to check. Myrcella heard the deep rumble of a man’s voice, but she couldn’t hear the whispered conversation. With a hastily muttered word or two, Rosamund turned to Myrcella, her eyes comically wide. She shut the door and hastened over.

 

“It’s the prince!” she whispered as she searched for Myrcella’s red slippers with a renewed frenzy. “He’s come to escort you to dinner himself!”

 

Myrcella didn’t need to ask which prince was at her door. The middle one couldn’t walk, and the youngest was just a baby. It was her betrothed, she knew. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. “Hurry up,” she said, and Rosamund finally produced her slippers with a soft cry of triumph.

 

When Myrcella slipped out of her room, Prince Robb was standing in the hallway, waiting for her. He smiled uncertainly at her, as if he was unsure of his welcome. “I have come to escort you to the Great Hall, my lady,” he said simply.

 

Cheeks flaming, Myrcella curtsied. “Thank you, Your Highness.” She heard Rosamund puttering around in the room behind her, hoping to listen in.

 

The Prince stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, and Myrcella herself had no idea what to do. In the end, he thrust his arm out. “You look… good,” he said. His tone suggested it was a mere courtesy, but it was much appreciated.

 

Myrcella murmured a thanks as she took the proffered arm. The Prince looked good too, though Myrcella didn’t have the courage to tell him that. He was dressed for function instead of style, which was the Northern way. Over simple dark breeches he wore a padded linen skirt with a leather doublet. A sword hung from his side, tapping lightly against her thigh with each step.

 

They were silent as they walked, with nothing to talk about. He led her down the stairs, and she was glad for his support, for the stone steps were too high to maneuver with her skirt. She remembered what the Great Hall looked like, and could hear the commotion now, but she was certain she would not have been able to find the way herself.

 

“I trust you slept well,” said the prince finally, when the silence was beginning to make her uncomfortable. “The journey must have been tiring.”

 

“It was, Your Highness,” said Myrcella, carefully looking at the stone beneath her feet. She cast her mind around for something to ask in turn. “But I do believe your own journey home was much longer?”

 

“We had an entire host to move,” he said with a nod. “Took us nearly five months. A host moves slow, my lady. Not everyone has horses.”

 

“Of course,” she replied, and the awkward conversation ended as they walked through a large wooden door, and they were suddenly in the Great Hall.

 

Unlike her family at King’s Landing, the Winter King ate with all his men each night, as if it were a feast. The Hall was packed with people, even the smallfolk. They were sitting and talking loudly amongst themselves on long benches she remembered from when she had visited. Her prince had escorted her through a simple door in the right wall, instead of the main entrance where men were still pouring in. Had he done it on purpose, to help keep her out of the public eye a little? Perhaps he was embarrassed to be escorting her, and didn’t want his men seeing him with her. It didn’t matter. She liked her entrance, and barely a head turned to look at her.

 

The whispers began when she climbed the steps to the high table, and she imagined she could hear the sour viciousness of the smallfolk. Winterfell was a huge castle, and needed many servants to man it. They were all here, it seemed, and they were all judging her. She was hated because she was a lion, she knew. Her father had been a friend of the King, but her mother had imprisoned him. Her mother had kept Lady Sansa-- _Princess_ Sansa--captive. And Joffrey had tormented her like a cruel child with a helpless toy.

 

“Are you well, Princess?” whispered the prince in her ear, his breath making her blonde curls flutter. He had stopped on the platform, looking at her, a few feet from the table where the rest of his family were already sitting. “Are you cold?”

 

And that was when Myrcella realized her thoughts had made her shiver. She tried to smile as she stared at him, murmuring some negative answer. He nodded, and led her to the table.

 

He led her to a seat on Lady Sansa’s left, then took the one next to her. It was an important seat, for he sat on his father’s right hand. A man she didn’t know sat on the King’s other side, as the Queen sat next to Princess Sansa. Another strange Northern custom, she supposed. She had always thought that queens were supposed to sit next to their kings, but apparently it was not so. The King was already deep in discussion with the man next to him. Perhaps he was an advisor, but he looked too poor to be someone too important to this new realm.

 

“You look beautiful, Princess,” said Princess Sansa next to her. Myrcella thanked her, and returned the courtesy. Before the princess could thank her in turn, the servants rushed in with platters of food. The smell made her stomach growl, but she doubted anyone in the Hall could hear it over the commotion. The King nodded, and food was placed all along the long table, making Myrcella’s mouth water. There were aurochs roasted with leeks, and honeyed chicken served with baked apples, crunchy onions dripping with gravy, and turnips swimming in butter. She waited till the King had taken his first bite, and then began to dump a little bit of everything on her plate. What would her Septa say, she wondered, if she saw how ravenously she chewed? She didn’t put her mind to any conversation until all the chicken she had taken was gone.

 

Then she just looked around to see if anyone had seen her eat like that. It wasn’t that the Manderlys hadn’t been hospitable, it was just that food never tasted well when you were tired and had more travelling to look forward to the next day. Myrcella knew she would sleep in the same bed again after this, and it heartened her.

 

“I do suppose the weather must seem dreadful to you,” said Princess Sansa next to her.

 

“Not dreadful, no,” said Myrcella, wondering how she was supposed to refer to her now. Sansa would be her good sister one day, but she didn’t want to call her a sister right now. In the end, she decided she would avoid referring to her completely. “I quite like the weather, in fact. It is no trouble. It is warm enough inside the keep, and I have cloaks aplenty if I wish to go out.”

 

“You can’t fight with a big cloak on,” came Princess Arya’s voice from down the table. Myrcella couldn’t see her very well, but she smiled nonetheless.

 

“The men often fight with their cloaks on,” said Myrcella. “I think they do it so well because they are used to it.” She had to raise her voice to be heard so far down the table, and she wondered briefly if it was improper.

 

“I’d much rather fight without a cloak,” said the Prince suddenly. “A cloak hinders movement.”

 

“Can we not talk of war at the dinner table?” asked Sansa, making her brother smirk. With a shrug, he went quiet.

 

Myrcella ate silently for a while, listening to the gruff tones in which the King conversed with the prince and the other man. They were talking about providing land and bare necessities for the people escaping the war in the South. “There’s too many, milord,” said the man. “Too many farmers being forced out of their homes, rushin’ up the Kingsroad bold as brass, demandin’ food an’ warmth an’ safety. There ain’t enough to feed all ‘em hungry mouths.”

 

“Winter is coming,” murmured the Prince next to her, and Myrcella understood what he was trying to say. She had heard of the white raven that had arrived from Oldtown, bearing news of Autumn. The Northerners were always right, in the end. Winter truly was coming, and they needed to hoard grain and firewood to last the winter. It was going to be hard to care for so many new smallfolk.

 

“Be that as it may,” said the King. “They are asking for help, have walked leagues to beg us. It would not do to turn them back. They are ours to take care of, now.”

 

Myrcella nearly choked on her chilled autumn ale as she tried to imagine Joffrey caring so much about the smallfolk. He would just as soon put them all in a room together with a loaf of bread and see who survived. She shuddered.

 

When there was silence again she spoke to the Prince, her tongue loosened by her ale. “I don’t see your famed beast, Your Grace,” she said.

 

He turned to look at her, and she saw a smile in his eyes if not on his face. “You should learn to call me by my name now. I am certain you know it.” He looked around, his gaze wistful. “Grey Wind is with the others, in the Godswood. Mother forbade us to bring them into the hall tonight, worried they might scare you.”

 

Myrcella was grateful for the respite. She had heard of the beasts, especially of Grey Wind. They weren’t the pups she had seen long ago. Now they were grown as tall as horses, people said. Soldiers had sworn in court that the Young Wolf’s direwolf had ripped the throats of three dozen men at the Whispering Woods. She thought of Rosamund’s tales of how the Prince turned into a wolf himself at night. Even now, as she sat next to the man himself, she wondered if perhaps that was true. “Thank you for your consideration, Your--Robb,” she said. “But I daresay I shall have to get used to them. This is their home, and I am the guest.”

 

He didn’t reply, and Sansa swept her into a debate about song and sewing. She was a competent enough singer, and her Septa had never complained of her skills with a needle, but it was art that was her true passion. She loved to draw and paint, she told Sansa, surprising her. People didn’t paint a lot in all of Westeros, Myrcella knew. She had discovered it when a merchant from Myr presented her mother with her likeness as a gift, making her father hoot with laughter, joking about having two Queens. She had asked the merchant about the ways of art later, but he hadn’t known much. Her uncle Jaime--her father?--had later procured paints and heavy paper for her to paint on, with brushes to experiment with. With no teacher, Myrcella had painted whatever she wanted for the past five years, and learned to care for her tools as well.

 

Her mother had forbidden her to take her old, tasteless tools North. She didn’t want Myrcella behaving like an uncultured fishwife from Essos, she had said. Myrcella had tried to smuggle some of her paints into her trunk by hiding them into her small clothes, but a jar had overflown, painting her smallclothes purple. Her septa had found out. She told Sansa all about it, omitting the detail about which clothes she had attempted to hide her paints in.

 

Princess Arya began to teach her how to sneak things, how to hide things from her Septa and her mother. Apparently, the princess hadn’t been allowed to take her beloved sword South, but had managed to anyway. Myrcella wanted to point out that Arya’s mother was sitting right next to her, listening to all her secret ways, but she was laughing too hard at all the inappropriate suggestions.

 

She wondered when she had laughed last, and realized she couldn’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creating the dinner menu took sneaky downloading of [A Feast of Ice and Fire](http://downloadnovelsfree.blogspot.com/2017/03/free-download-for-free_18.html), a Game of Thrones companion ebook. The linked website has all other books in the series, as well as all other books by George R. R. Martin, available for free download. This is my blog, and yes, it is a shameless plug. I take requests too. Enjoy!


	8. You have a gentle heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the wrong chapter! I forgot this one in the middle! So congrats guys, you get two chapters in one day.
> 
> The name of the chapter comes from Jorah Mormont this time round.

The glass gardens were beautiful. 

 

Arya had shown her the way in exchange for a promise to never call her a princess or a lady again. Her courtesies were a small price to pay for the scent of wet earth, for the crisp smell of the plants and the memory of home. She missed Tommen and Ser Pounce, and her mother. She missed Uncle Jaime. The glass gardens reminded her of all those times he would chase her through the gardens of the Red Keep, growling about how he was going to eat her when he caught up to her. Yet she had always seemed to outrun him with her uneven, childish gait.

 

Was he dead?

 

Myrcella blinked rapidly when she realized she was crying again. Rosamund always hugged her and told her how it was okay to cry for her family. It was part of the reason Myrcella was alone in the gardens. She was sick of her own crying, in a way. It didn’t help. It wasn’t as though the Starks were unkind to her. Arya and her were becoming fast friends, and even Bran had a kind word or two for her when he was not conversing with the Reeds. Little Rickon told her how much he liked her shiny hair nearly everyday.

 

And then there was her betrothed. 

 

The young wolf was often uncomfortable while he talked to her, but it was funny and charming instead of insulting. She was realizing that the Northerners didn’t have much patience for platitudes or courtesies. They were men of action, the men who survived harsh winters with fortitude. In a way, Myrcella liked the way the prince often told her exactly what he was thinking. She had seen Joff smile charmingly at Lady Sansa and compliment her dress a minute before he asked Ser Meryn Trant to take it off her in court. She had learned how fake courtesies could be.

 

He had asked her to call him by his name. 

 

It was such a silly thing to fixate over, she knew. She had been at Winterfell almost a month now, and referred to him with the respect his title commanded. She had been seated beside him at dinner nearly every day she had been here. That was, usually, the only time they saw each other. He was a terribly busy sort of Prince, quite unlike Joff, and there was certainly much to do in the kingdom. It had been a fortnight since she had seen him, for he had gone to the Dreadfort on some urgent matter. She had asked him to pass the butter at supper the night before he left, and he had smiled down at her. “Robb has much less syllables than Your Highness, don’t you think?” he had said.

 

Myrcella had nodded carefully. His question reminded her of the way Joff had yelled at Lady Sansa to call him King after father had fallen into the deep sleep. “I suppose so, Your Highness.”

 

“Then perhaps you can call me that, Myrcella,” the prince had said in a low voice.

 

She blushed as she thought about it even now. She was to be his  _ bride _ , couldn’t he see how improper it would be to call him by name? She couldn’t, surely. What woman called her own husband by name? Yet a small part of her wanted to. It was an intimacy that he had granted her, even as he had spoken her name for the first time. She wanted him to say her name again. It sounded different in his gruff Northern accent.

 

She bent to look more carefully at the winter roses that grew along the back wall of the gardens. They were beautiful, their colour like frost, their smell sweeter than she had imagined. “Robb,” she whispered to a blossom, like a naughty secret, and then giggled at her own daring. If only she could say it to  _ him. _

 

As luck would have it, the prince and his guard were just returning to Winterfell as she left the Glass Gardens. She had just passed the North Gate and the armory when the men came galloping back home, and she paused in the courtyard to welcome Robb back. He looked dashing upon his dark grey destrier, his heavy cloak settling against his horse as he came to a stop. When he saw her, he smiled, making her blush.

 

They hadn’t been expected for another couple of days, so Myrcella knew he must have ridden hard, but he still came over to talk to her when the stable hands took his horse away.

 

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” she said as he strode towards her.

 

The handsome prince groaned good-naturedly. “I thought we had discussed this, Myrcella,” he said. “Didn’t we agree you would call me by my name?”

Myrcella only remembered blushing fiercely and choking on honeyed milk when he had made his request. She told him as much, making him laugh again. She wondered how she could ever had thought of him as too old for her. The laughter in his face made him seem young and carefree, just a boy instead of the crown prince.

“Well, then, I do hope you have considered it,” he said on a chuckle.

Myrcella opened her mouth to reply, but her sassy retort turned into a near-scream when the wolf appeared. It was  _ huge _ , almost as tall as the horses, and it’s menacingly slow prowl made her take a step back without thought. The golden eyes stared at her as if judging her for a crime, and Myrcella suddenly realized she was frozen in fear, like prey.

“It’s okay,” said the prince, taking her arm. “Shh, Myrcella, it’s fine. He won’t hurt you.”

Myrcella blinked several times before she tore her gaze away from the direwolf to its master. They were of a height, she realized. And still the beast made no move towards her.  _ How well does it listen to you?  _ she wanted to ask.  _ How much control do you have? _

She didn’t say the words, but he must have seen the question in her eyes anyway. “Grey Wind harms no one I don’t want harmed,” he said. “He has only killed in battle, like I have. He listens to me, Myrcella. I swear he won’t harm you.”

The solemn words did more to calm her than any eloquent speech could have. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and she knew how much his words were worth. “It--He--does seem awfully tall, Your--Robb.” The name felt strange on her tongue, and she blushed.

He grinned at the small victory. “He ate all his vegetables,” he confided, making her laugh. “Were you returning to the keep then?” he asked, and Myrcella nodded.

The courtyard began to empty around them, but Myrcella realized she didn’t want to stop talking to him. She had seen so little of him even before he left for the Dreadfort, and she realized with a jolt that she had missed him. “Was your trip successful, then?”

“I suppose so,” he said with a shrug as he began to escort her across the courtyard. The direwolf didn’t follow. “Lord Bolton died at the Whispering Wood, and there is no one left to inherit the Dreadfort. He had a bastard, but Father wanted me to go talk to him before we decided what to do with the fortress. I had hoped we could just legitimize him, clearing all this up rather quickly, but...”

“But?” They were inside the keep by now. Myrcella wasn’t exactly privy to news of what the men were up to all day, and she relished the knowledge. She stopped on the staircase to look at him. “Was there a problem?”

“Of a sort,” said the prince. “The smallfolk seem to fear him something fierce… I don’t think they like the boy. There was just something about him that made me wary of him.”

Myrcella thought, once again, of how Joff would have handled the situation. If the men feared this bastard, Joff would probably make friends with him. The better to torment the people. She shook her head to clear out thoughts of her vile brother, and looked back at Robb. “I would trust your instincts.”

“You would?” he asked, surprise colouring his tone.

Myrcella nodded. “You’ve known men, led them to battle. You have gauged and measured what a man is capable of. If you think there is something wrong with him, there probably is.” She coloured as she realized he may not want to hear her prattle on about something she didn’t understand, and stopped talking abruptly.

“Thank you,” he said as he stopped before her room. “I hope Father sees it the same way you did.” He gestured to his own room down the hallway. “I have to wash half the Kingsroad off of me, Myrcella. So, if you will allow me, I will take your leave.” When she nodded, he gave her one of his rare smiles. “We will talk more at dinner?”

“Yes, Robb,” she said.

Myrcella took extra care with her appearance that night, ignoring Rosamund’s smirks and cheeky questions. She wasn’t trying to look pretty for Robb, really. She was just happy. Septa Helna had praised her stitches during lessons in the morning, and the glass gardens had improved her mood. She chose the [blue dress](https://s19.postimg.org/jeew34jkz/Whats_App_Image_2017-03-18_at_3.31.22_PM.jpg)  her uncle Jaime had gifted her with before she left home. The neckline and the underskirt were both powdery blue, as were the undersleeves. They were adorned by dark blue flowers close together in a random pattern, the same color as the dress itself. There was no belt, however. Instead, it laced in the front, the better to hug her waist.

She thought it looked good on her, and Rosamund agreed. They decided to pull her hair up in the way that Queen Catelyn sometimes did, with a twisted braid holding the rest of her hair up. It was a complicated task, and Rosamund cursed their ambition heavily, but the end result was worth it. A beautiful  [comb ](https://s19.postimg.org/nw65y8p43/36bdc2ad5050732c3c3445c9f0c0f657.jpg) held it all together. It had beautiful sapphire roses, along with leaves, all studded with beautiful crystals and precious rhinestones. They reminded her of the sweet winter roses she had found in the glass gardens that afternoon. Pearls sat on the stems of the roses. It was perhaps too lavish for the Northerners, but she loved it.

Her heart began to hammer when a knock sounded on her door.

“Lady Sansa,” said Rosamund, letting the princess in. She sounded a little put off. Myrcella herself had expected Robb, but he must be busy. Sansa and Arya often accompanied her to meals. She smiled at her friend.

“I was just heading to dinner,” said Sansa. “Would you like to accompany me?”

Myrcella nodded. Sansa was wearing a simple woollen dress, and it made Myrcella feel gaudy. Did she dress too much? Sansa was taller than her, and very beautiful. It wasn’t as if she needed grand clothes to make an impression. This was her home, and she dressed exactly as all the other women around her did. Was Myrcella alienating herself by putting so much time and effort into her appearance?

Robb was already seated, talking to the king in hushed, urgent tones. The new blacksmith boy, Arya’s friend, was sitting on the King’s other side today. He seemed to be involved in the discussion too. Myrcella let Sansa lead her up to the dias, hoping they were talking of her uncle or her grandfather. Her mother was safe in the Red Keep, she was sure of it. She doubted Tommen was allowed to leave the Keep.

Robb’s eyes followed her with a strange intensity as she took her seat next to him. She was sure he liked her dress. His words faltered before he finished his sentence, not looking at his father at all. 

“...depends on their needs,” she heard him say before he turned to her. “Hello again, little princess,” he said to her, low enough that only she could hear. His mouth was close to her ear, and she could feel his breath.

The Queen sat next to her today, but all Myrcella could think about was Robb. She wondered when she had started to be so acutely aware of his presence, to notice how close his right hand was to her left, to notice the tiredness in his voice as he continued to converse with the king.

“It is not that complicated, Father,” he said. “Mikken and Gendry are both excellent blacksmiths. We only need to know who can better help at White Harbor.”

“Do you have experience with building ships, boy?” asked the King. Myrcella tried to hear the blacksmith’s answer, but he was sitting too far away, and there was a great deal of noise in the hall. Servants were starting to bring out the food, and people were still pouring in from the courtyard. “Then it is decided. You can stay here at Winterfell while Mikken goes to White Harbor. He knows more of ships than you.”

Myrcella had barely talked to the king at all, but she was often surprised by how quiet he was. He used his words with a certain economy that Myrcella was getting used to now. He had never spoken to her in King’s Landing, and she was beginning to wonder how a man so reserved and quiet was friends with her father.

“How were your lessons today, Myrcella?” said the Queen. “I hear you are trying your hand at music now.”

Myrcella smiled. “Septa Helna insists my singing voice is not that bad, but I do believe she is being polite, Your Grace. I fear I sometimes sound worse than Ser Pounce.”

“Ser… Pounce?”

Myrcella colored. How ridiculous did she sound? “My brother Tommen’s cat, Your Grace. He screeched something fierce if you stepped on his tail.”

“I had a cat once,” said the queen. “Vicious little thing he was… My uncle gave him to me as recompense for not seeing me as often as I would have liked. He said I would be so busy chasing the little ball of fur that I wouldn’t have time to miss him.”

Myrcella smiled. “Why would you want to chase a cat?”

The queen laughed. “I don’t know, child. He called it Cat’s cat. I think that is what everyone else called it, till it died.”

“I am sorry to hear your cat died, Your Grace,” said Myrcella politely. She wondered how she would feel if Ser Pounce died. It was too abstract a thought to invoke any real response from her.

Before the queen could reply, Robb turned to her. “What are you laughing about?” he asked.

“I wasn’t,” replied Myrcella. She looked around, but Robb’s wolf was not in the hall, as usual. “Is Gendry going to leave?”

“No, why?” said Robb, his expression puzzled. “Does it matter?”

“I think you might have to take Arya’s permission before sending her friend anywhere,” said Myrcella. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Arya had a peculiar notion of keeping her friends and family close. And her Needle.

Robb’s smile grew till it morphed into a laugh. “Yes, I suppose we will. But no, he is not leaving at all.”

Myrcella wanted, desperately, to ask him about her mother, her uncles, and her brother. She wanted to know what was going on in the South, whether her uncle Stannis was sailing to King’s Landing at last. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. But she was surrounded by Northerners, by men who hated the very people she loved. Her uncle Tyrion had been a prisoner of the queen, and Robb Stark had captured her uncle Jaime. She reconsidered her questions and finally found a suitable one to ask. “Will we be going to war, my prince?” Myrcella felt the queen stiffen next to her.

Robb looked taken aback by her brazen question. “No northman wants to,” he said finally. “As long as we are not attacked, as your grandfather promised, the North will take no part in the battles. Only if the riverlands are attacked again by the…” He looked at her briefly before continuing. “By the Lannisters will we leave. Winter is coming, and with all the extra mouths to feed we need the men home, tending to the harvest.”

Myrcella tried to hide her disappointment by looking away from him. She had wanted to know if her family was safe. He hadn’t mentioned anyone at all, except her grandfather. He never took up a sword himself, she knew. Her mother had complained about that, loud and often. She blinked rapidly to dismiss the tears that wanted to gather in her eyes at the thought of her mother.

This was not the time, nor the place, to weep for a Lannister. So she sat and talked of her lessons, of her favorite songs and the weather.

When the noise had died down and they were eating their fruit tarts, Robb asked her to join him for a walk after dinner.

He assured her that they were simply going to walk in the courtyard. His mother smiled encouragingly at Myrcella when she turned to look at her. Myrcella had been looking forward to a quiet night in her room, to closing her eyes and pretending she was back home, but she smiled politely and agreed.

His wolf was waiting outside, and she screamed once more when she saw it, but once again Robb took her arm in his and told her the beast would never harm her.

“Assure me about ninety more times, Your Highness, and I shall begin to believe you,” she said on a breath, her eyes fixed on the bold golden ones in front of her.

Robb laughed. “Why, you wound me Myrcella! Do you not trust my word?”

Myrcella was about to make a cutting reply, but the wolf moved towards her, making her words die in her throat. She was certain that her tight  grip must be bruising the prince’s arm, but he didn’t say a word, letting her cling to him in her fear. The wolf barely blinked as it held her gaze. It bent its giant head toward her, and for a moment Myrcella was afraid it would open it’s mouth and devour her whole. A hysterical chuckle began to bubble up her throat as she saw her legs sticking out of the wolf’s muzzle, her body stuck in it’s throat, her pretty dress in tatters.

And then the wolf ducked its head and  _ sniffed  _ her.

Myrcella couldn’t have moved if the world had crumbled around her. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and her breath stuck in her throat. The breath escaped in a panicked exhale when the animal  _ nudged _ her head. It’s touch was like a whisper on her head, soft and fleeting, and Myrcella felt as though it was somehow marking her. It’s gentle breath barely fluttered her hair, but she was still glad when Robb finally spoke.

“Grey Wind, to me,” he said, and instantly, the beast was gone.

Myrcella opened eyes she didn’t even remember squeezing shut. The wolf--Grey Wind--was on Robb’s right side. Her prince was between her and his wolf. She shivered but didn’t resist when he started to walk. The wolf walked with him.

For a while, Robb said nothing. They just walked, as though there was no war in the world, as though people she loved were not in danger. In the soft light of the Great Keep and the armory, the world seemed far away, and war seemed a myth.

“I know you worry about your family,” he said after they had walked around the courtyard once. Grey Wind whined low in its throat, as if in sympathy. “It is only natural, Myrcella.”

She said nothing. Even though his kind words surprised her, Myrcella wasn’t certain if she was supposed to assure him of her loyalty or ask for news.

“The Lannisters are fine,” he said as he steered her away from the Great Keep and past the library tower. She could see the kitchens just beyond, where the fires were still burning as the smallfolk still ate. “The Lannister armies have left the Riverlands, finally, and are gathering in he crownlands. There will be trouble from the South soon, from the stormlands. Tywin Lannister is amassing his strength at King's Landing, and the Kingslayer is amassing a host in the Kingswood. They are getting ready for an attack by your Uncle Stannis, I believe. He will attack first. He should. Renly has too many men, and he would much rather wait. Your mother and brothers are in the Red Keep.”

“My uncles haven’t attacked?”

“One has too many men, the other too few,” Robb lamented. Myrcella wondered how having too many men could be a problem, but she dared not ask. What if he stopped talking?

But it seemed like he was done talking without her prompting. He led her to a turret near the outer wall of the castle, a stout little turret next to the hunter’s gate. Myrcella wondered if they were going outside the castle. He wouldn’t lead her out, would he? Not without a guard and not at night, surely. She hadn’t been outside since she arrived.

But they were apparently going inside the tower itself. When Myrcella hesitated, he turned to look at her. “It’s just the maester’s chambers. Come on, we are going up to the rookery.”

“Why?” she asked, but Robb didn’t answer. With no other choice, Myrcella followed him. She wished he had grabbed a torch from the kitchens, for the way was dark. Grey Wind padded softly behind her, its breath on her skirts. She stayed quiet as they climbed to the very top of the tower, afraid she would wake up the maester if she spoke too loudly.

Robb led her to the rookery with ease. There were at least two dozen ravens, each indignant at being woken up from its slumber. They began to screech loudly when they saw Grey Wind behind her, climbing the walls of their cages in panic. Myrcella didn’t blame them. In the light from the single candle on the windowsill, Grey Wind’s eyes seemed to spark. They didn’t quiet down even when Robb closed the door, with Grey Wind outside.

“I was wondering if you would like to write a letter home,” Robb said. He lit a torch from the candle.

Myrcella stilled, her gaze stuck on the birds. Was this a trap? Did he want her to send her grandfather a threat of some sort? A message that could turn the tide of the war…

“What would you like me to write, Your Highness?” Her voice was carefully devoid of expression, because she wasn’t sure of what she was feeling.

Robb was rummaging around for paper and ink. He barely spared her a glance. “Whatever you would like to say, of course.” He made a triumphant sound and turned towards her. “I only hope you will write to your mother or brother, for I am afraid getting a letter to your fath--uncle or grandfather will be difficult.”

  
Myrcella felt the tears gather in her eyes again. “Thank you,” she said, and then sat down to ask all the questions she had feared would never get answered.  



	9. Winter Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever." Mully says it to Jon in Dance With Dragons, and even though I haven’t reached that far in the books, but I think it’s a good quote.

Myrcella loved talking to Arya.

 

She was the exact opposite of pretty much all that Myrcella thought a princess should be. The best thing was, Arya didn’t care. She was dishevelled and dirty most of the time, with a sword swinging at her hip and the spirit of adventure in her eyes. Like a warrior queen from the age of heroes, Myrcella often thought. She was brave too, something that was glaringly obvious from the tales she told about all she had seen on her way home. It horrified Myrcella, and Arya loved her scandalized expression so much she would talk more and more. Her feet and hands were calloused like a commoner, and there were a hundred tales to be told about each.

 

But the one person she talked most about was Jon Snow.

 

Myrcella was certain that ladies weren’t supposed to talk so fondly about their bastard brothers, but then again, Arya Stark was no lady. She had warned Myrcella that she would be very cross with her if referred to as one. Myrcella had heeded the warning.

 

“He has been on rangings outside the wall,” she said from where she was sprawled on Myrcella’s bed. “He’s taken Ghost with him, of course, and he’s killed people.”

 

“He has?” Myrcella wasn’t sure why she was surprised. 

 

“Wildlings,” said Arya casually, waving a hand. “He lived with them for a while, North of the Wall.”

 

“But that’s… are you sure?” Arya wasn’t fanciful, she dealt in facts, but the wildlings allowing a man of the Night’s Watch to live with them was a little too strange to accept without question.

 

Arya nodded. “He wrote to me,” she said. “I have made him promise he will keep writing to me. Or I will go North and kick him in the knees before I whack him with Needle.”

 

Myrcella laughed, hoping she could one day be half as wild as her friend. But alas, she was a proper little lady, dull and boring. “I am sure he will keep writing then.”

 

Arya stroked the hilt of her sword as she smiled fondly. “Did you know that one time Jon and Robb--” A sudden knock on Myrcella’s door interrupted her, and Arya scowled.

 

Rosamund had run down to the kitchens for something to sneak, so Myrcella just called out for whoever it was to enter. It was Prince Robb. He smiled at her and brandished a letter he was holding in his hand. “May I come in, my lady?” he asked.

 

Myrcella greeted him warmly, suddenly wondering if her hair looked alright. Arya and Rosamund had experimented with it all morning, which had resulted in a plain Northern style--a couple of braids twisted together at the back of her head. She wasn’t sure Robb noticed.

 

“What do  _ you  _ want?” said Arya brusquely, and Myrcella wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to groan.

 

The prince chose to laugh. He clearly hadn’t expected Arya to be there, but he smiled warmly at her, as he had at Myrcella. “Well, seeing as this isn’t your room, I am not here to talk to you, am I?”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. Then she narrowed them at the letter Robb held. “What is that?” she said suspiciously.

 

“It’s a rat I found in the Godswood,” said Robb with a laugh. Myrcella’s eyes bulged before she realized he must have been joking. “Would you like to keep it under your bed tonight?”

 

With a huff, Arya got up to leave. “No,” she said. “I don’t like rats. They taste stingy as hell.”

 

Robb blinked several times, trying to find an answer to the off-hand comment, but Arya left before he could think of anything. She left the door open, and Myrcella didn’t close it after her. It wasn’t proper to be in a locked room with a man, even if he was to marry her one day.

 

“I don’t think I could ever eat a rat,” she said. When he looked at her again, she gestured at the letter he held. “Is that for me?”

 

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “A raven arrived in the morning, with a letter from the Red Keep. I suppose it’s for you.” He handed it to her.

 

Myrcella was surprised that it still had the Lannister seal on it. It was so curious, how this little mindfulness of her privacy made her heart swell. She had been so afraid before she had come back to Winterfell. What had she been afraid of? They had been nothing but kind to her. The King hadn’t opened a letter from the enemy’s camp in the midst of war, simply on the off-chance that it was a personal letter meant for Myrcella. She smiled tremulously and held out her hand for it.

 

But it wasn’t addressed to her. 

 

_ To the Young Wolf, _ it started in her mother’s hand, confusing her. Her mother had written to Robb? Why? Why hadn’t she replied to Myrcella’s letter first?

 

“It’s addressed to you,” she said, her heart breaking. Maybe he would still let her read it?

 

Robb’s expression was puzzled, and it was apparent that he hadn’t been having a secret conversation with the Southron queen. Her mother’s letter made no sense. The North had no quarrel with her anymore. They were more focused on the coming winter and their harvest.

 

Myrcella watched Robb’s expression curdle as he read, watched rage cloud his eyes. She was certain her mother had not written anything nice, so she didn’t ask him to let her read it.

 

“She thinks I made you write the letter,” he said finally. Myrcella watched in dismay as he crumpled the letter in his fist. His jaw was twitching with his anger. She said nothing. “She thinks I am asking you to spy on her!”

 

Even as tears began to prickle behind her eyes, Myrcella shook her head resolutely. This was her fault. She should have expected her mother’s reaction to her letter. That was how things were done in the South, weren’t they? Princess Sansa had been forced to write a letter to her mother and to Robb, she knew. Her mother had talked about it whenever she got drunk.  _ That is not how things are done here _ , she wanted to tell her mother. _ Robb was being kind. _

 

“May I read it, Robb?” she asked. No matter what her mother believed, a letter meant news. She needed to know everyone was alive and well. Was Joffrey tormenting Tommen too much?

 

Robb hesitated. “It’s addressed to me,” he said carefully.

 

Even as she nodded, Myrcella felt tears well in her eyes. She looked away, mortified by her childish impulse. She mustn’t let him see her cry like a child. “Of course. My apologies,” she said finally.

 

“No, it isn’t… Oh, seven hells!” His curse surprised her, and she turned to face him, tears forgotten. He seemed to have realized what he just said, for he turned a very flattering shade of red. “Her words aren’t… proper. A lady shouldn’t--”

 

Perhaps she could be like Arya after all. Myrcella squared her shoulders now, her curiosity getting the best of her. Her mother had written down foul words? “I would like to read it anyways.”

 

Robb stuttered to a halt, his gaze measuring her resolve. She dared not blink. He was still thinking when she leaned forward and snatched it from his hand. He made a surprised sound, but she turned her back to him and began to read. He made no move to stop her, though she got the feeling he dearly wanted to.

 

_ To the Young Wolf, _

 

_ It is a clever trick, though an old one. I am not crazy enough to think that the Riverlands and the North are finished with this war, simply because of a few promises the King has made. You hungry wolves will not rest till you sit atop the throne that rightfully belongs to Joffrey, and you will do whatever you deem necessary to do it. Why do you want information? Which one of Robert’s traitor brothers will you sell it to? _

 

_ Myrcella is more of an idiot than I thought, for writing this letter of yours. Have you gotten your greedy paws on her yet? Shouldn’t that be enough? I thought it would be enough to sell my daughter to you, to let you marry her and fuck her and to beget children on her. I will not tell you where Jaime is, and I don’t care where the little monster has gone to die. I hope he chokes to death on his own bile. _

 

_ House Lannister is stronger than ever, which is all you need to know. _

 

_ From Cersei of House Lannister _

_ Queen Regent of the Six Kingdoms. _

 

Myrcella read it over and over again, trying to understand her mother’s cruel words, trying to look past her blatant hatred and find some sort of concern for her only daughter. They words barely made sense to her, and the tears finally started to fall, because she hadn’t expected any of this. She had expected her mother to be glad that she had written, for kind words and gentle promises, but all she had was bitterness. She wished her mother had mentioned her brother, or let slip a single kind word for her. She wondered how to make her mother understand. She wondered if it was possible to do so.

 

“Myrcella, don’t--ah, fuck, I shouldn’t have,” said Robb in a quiet voice, and the curse didn’t seem to sound so bad coming from him. What did that word mean? Why had her mother used it? She tried to stop crying, but the letter was still in her hand, and looking at it just made her sob harder. Robb took it away from her and threw it in the fire. “She didn’t think you would read it. She thought I wouldn’t give it to you.”

 

He said it like it was his fault for letting her read the letter, and she bristled. “And it is okay for her to say this to  _ you _ ?” Anger felt good, anger soothed her ragged feelings, soothed the little girl inside her that felt betrayed.

 

He shrugged. “I have read worse, little lion,” he said. “I have heard worse.” He tried a smile. “I have  _ said  _ worse things.” His hands moved in an aborted movement, like he wanted to hug her. Myrcella realized she wanted him to.

 

“Like what?” she said, trying to discreetly wipe her eyes. It was too difficult--he was standing next to her, his gaze on her face. It made her feel like she was the only person in the world. Did he look at Arya in this way?

 

“You want me to tell you what I say to my men?” She had surprised him, she thought as he shook his head and laughed. “I don’t think so, little lion.”

 

“I’m not a lion,” said Myrcella, unbearably sad again. “My mother thinks I am spying for you now, that I am no true lion.” Her eyes started to fill again. She clenched her fists, determined not to cry in front of him again.

 

And then he stepped forward and hugged her.

 

Myrcella was stunned for a few seconds. One of his arms had snaked around her shoulder blades to hold her against him, while his other hand found its way to her hair. He held her close to him, and suddenly all she could feel was Robb. He seemed very tall to her, with his chin resting gently on her head. The smell of leather was all around her, leather and cold and horses. She felt surrounded by him, grounded by him. Her hands sneaked out to hug him back. She had missed hugs, she realized.

 

“You are to me,” he said softly in her hair before he let her go. He was smiling at her.

 

She smiled back. 


	10. Life is short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The late Renly Baratheon said those words to his (not so beloved) brother Stannis before Stannis fathered a shadow baby to stab him. I thought those words appropriate for this chapter.

The courtyard was full with the arrival of the mummers from White Harbor, and the singers that were already arguing loudly. They were going to have to be separated from one another before Princess Myrcella’s name-day feast, for it seemed entirely possible that they might end up killing each other in the night.

 

She had protested such a grand event, but it was more than a name-day celebration. The Northmen needed to see that Myrcella was one of them, very welcome here in the North. All the Northern lords were invited to ride to Winterfell to swear fealty to their new king. There were important matters to be discussed, like the succession of House Bolton, and that of Lady Hornwood. The harvest was also on all their minds, as was the troubling news of an imminent wildling attack from North of the Wall. 

 

But Robb’s mind was on other matters. 

 

He had spent the past several minutes searching for Myrcella. He had grave news for her. News of war and death, of slain kings and scattered armies. He wondered if she would grieve this slain king, or exult in his death. He had interrupted the girls’ lessons, but the Septa told him Myrcella had begged leave to pray. Arya had tried and failed to leave her lessons with her. Septon Chayle had told him that she had been there, that she had been crying when she left. Had she heard already? Robb had found Rickon loitering in the kitchen doors. He had insisted that Myrcella had crossed the yard and gone to godswood. It had seemed strange to Robb, but he slipped past the gates and tried to find her.

 

The woods seem to mock him again. He barely ever found the time to come sit in the shadow of the weirwood now, or to pray to his father’s gods. Myrcella had left candles burning for all the seven gods in the sept. He hadn’t prayed inside the sept either, for months now. He had meant to give thanks to the gods for helping his family find their way home, but somehow he hadn’t gotten around to it. The eerie wind whispering through the leaves felt like the angry murmurs of the old gods. It was only his guilt, he knew. He vowed to visit the godswood more as he silently looked for Myrcella. Somehow it felt wrong to raise his voice here, to yell for her. He slipped through the trees looking for a flash of color, knowing that Myrcella would be wearing something bright, as always.

 

She was happy here, he knew. Arya and Rickon talked of her often. Apparently, she and Arya were becoming fast friends, though he wondered how that could be. He still didn’t know all that had befallen Arya on the roads of Riverrun, but he knew that she had returned wilder than ever. He couldn’t imagine her with the sweet girl that he was to marry one day.

 

He thought he saw a flash of emerald green straight ahead, and headed for her. When he found her sitting next to the weirwood tree, he stopped to stare.

 

She was sitting on a rock in front of the heart tree, her solemn eyes gazing at the ancient face carved into the trunk. Her emerald green dress pooled around her, though she had artfully moved it out of the way of her companion.

 

Most of Robb’s astonishment came from the way she stroked Grey Wind’s fur. Long, slow strokes made the wolf pant in happiness. His paws were carefully placed on top of Myrcella’s skirt, and he sat very still for her. She didn’t seem to notice she was petting him.

 

“Do you think they can talk to the other heart trees?” she asked the wolf in a small, sad voice. “Can they see my brother? I worry about him, you know. Joffrey is… not very nice, and--” she broke off when Grey Wind turned his head to acknowledge Robb. She turned with him, confused, then hastily stood up when she saw him.

 

“Your--Robb!” she said, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. “I was just...”

 

“No, I am sorry,” said Robb at the same time. “I shouldn’t have intruded. It’s just… Myrcella, I am sorry.” He stepped forward, came closer to her. “I have some sad news.”

 

“Tommen? Is it Tommen? Is Uncle Jaime--?” her hand whipped out, quick as a snake, to grasp his arm as a worried frown emerged. 

 

“It’s Renly,” Robb said. “It’s just Renly. He’s… he’s dead, Myrcella.” He saw instantly that she  _ would  _ grieve for him. As her face crumpled, he wished impotently that there was something for him to do. “I am sorry,” he said lamely in the end.

 

“I...” She looked lost for a second, then looked at him again. “I don’t--he was a traitor,” she said finally. The fact didn’t seem to lessen her sadness. “He was a traitor, but he liked me,” she said. “Do I mourn him or feel glad that a traitor is dead? I don’t… am I true to my family and my king if I weep for a traitor?”

 

Robb thought about it for a moment. Platitudes were stupid, and he wouldn’t insult her by telling her how she should feel. She was free to grieve for anyone. “I think that no matter what he did near the end of his life, he was still the uncle who liked you. You can mourn the uncle and rejoice in the death of a traitor.”

 

Myrcella nodded. Grey Wind whined low in his throat and butted his head gently against her hip, making her smile. When had they become such great friends? She sobered up quickly. “He was slain in battle?”

 

“No,” said Robb. He hesitated, unsure of the truth. “The men say a knight in his kingsguard murdered him.” 

 

“His own kingsguard?” said Myrcella, alarmed. “But--That’s the most vile treachery...” her voice trailed off without finishing her thought, possibly because she suddenly realized what it said about her beloved uncle. Robb didn’t comment on it. Or on the legitimacy of calling the Kingslayer uncle.

 

She was silent then, staring at the heart tree. He turned to leave, thinking that she wouldn’t want to grieve in front of him. Her hand tightened on his arm, and she blushed even as she asked him to stay. “I--I would like it if you could,” she said shyly.

 

So they stood for a while, silent and contemplative. Robb thought of all the Stormlands’ armies, and how this would affect Tywin Lannister. The outcome of the war did not concern him anymore, for the North was safe, as were the Riverlands. The crownlands and the stormlands fought for the iron throne, but a much bigger threat were the wildlings. He thought of Jon’s letters, and the letters from Alliser Thorne himself. His father had remarked on how their facts were at odds with each other, how Jon believed the wildlings to be a much greater threat that the acting lord commander did. Jon had urged them to be ready to charge into the gift if Castle Black fell. Alliser Thorne had assured them there was no need to worry.

 

“Would you… do you think you could--” Myrcella stopped talking suddenly. She turned a pretty shade of red before she turned away.

 

Robb was eager to do anything to get that sad look off her face. “What is it?” he said.

 

Myrcella shook her head before a look from Robb made her mumble,“Would you embrace me again, please?”

 

Well, he hadn’t expected that. It took him a few seconds to move, but he shook the surprise off and hugged her. She was shorter than Sansa, and taller than Arya. He set his chin on her pretty hair and listened to her breathe. Slowly, her hands rose up to hold him back, and he smiled when he felt her delicate hands clutch at his jerkin. Then his smile turned into a frown as she began to sob.

 

Later, Robb would wonder about the way he panicked--a battle-hardened commander unmanned by the tears of a young girl. But in that moment, he felt desperate, and useless. How could he stop her tears from falling, her heart from missing loved ones. One uncle was dead, and more would be before this war was over. Her mother didn’t trust her enough to even send her news of her brother. There was nothing he could do, so he stood and held her as she cried. Grey Wind began to whine, distraught like Robb was, but he didn’t leave Myrcella either. Together, they stood guard while she broke apart.

 

When it was over, when she had purged herself of all the fear and anxiety, she seemed embarrassed by her outburst. 

 

“I am so sorry, Your Highness,” she said.  Her hands fluttered on his jerkin, trying to wipe away the evidence of her tears. It made him smile. 

 

He leaned in, as though about to whisper a great secret. “I cried like that only yesterday,“ he said. Myrcella’s eyes widened. “Arya threw gravy at my favorite jerkin, and she _ ruined  _ it, so I hugged Grey Wind and cried myself to sleep.”

 

She stopped stroking his chest and slapped it lightly instead. “Don't,” she mumbled to his chest, but he caught the smile nonetheless.

 

She was better by the time he left her. He worried at the problem of her suspicious mother, trying to think of a solution as he crossed the courtyard. There were new men, and servants were carrying cases into the guest house. Someone had arrived, he knew. The other lords would not be far behind. 

 

He found his father in the solar, writing a letter.

 

“The Bolton bastard has been gathering men to the Dreadfort,” said Ned without preamble. “Lady Hornwood is here, and she demanded an audience as soon as she was in the courtyard. She is scared of what the boy might do.”

 

Robb sighed as he took his chair across from his father. “Are you writing to him?”

 

“I am demanding to know his motives,” agreed his father. “And I am asking him here, to pledge allegiance and put his case forward. The Night’s Watch has been asking for men, I will ask him if he wants to join.”

 

“He wouldn’t,” said Robb. “He’s… there’s something very wrong about that man, father. There’s something in his eyes, the way he talks. The smallfolk mutter about him.”

 

“The smallfolk in Riverrun say you can turn into a wolf at night,” said Ned with a smile. “We will see what to do about this boy, after the feast. Once the lords all leave Winterfell, we will ride North to talk to him, and settle the matter of the Dreadfort as best we can.” He paused for a while. ”At least I am sending  _ some  _ people to the Night’s Watch,” he said finally.

 

Robb nodded. Even though the fighting was done in the Riverlands, there were still several people taking refuge in the North, afraid or unwilling to go back. A few of the orphans had asked to be sent to the wall, as well as green boys with no prospects who were eager for glory. All the others were being put to work in fields, and Lord Manderly was to take several people with him to take to the fishing villages in White Harbor. This could be the last harvest before winter set in, and by all accounts it was going to be a really long one. Every able-bodied Northerner knew that this was the time to work, and work hard. The fish from White Harbor would see them through winter.

 

“Did you find the princess?” asked Ned. His brow was furrowed with worry. “Did you tell her?”

 

Robb nodded. “She took it well, I suppose.” His father nodded absently, and Robb took his leave. 

 

He had to find Sansa, he decided. There was a vague plan forming in his head, and he would need his sister’s help. There were questions he needed answered, and letters to be sent. He would need Maester Luwin’s fastest ravens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to tell you guys a thing. I am going on a trip to New York, and my in laws are coming over to stay for a month after, so I have taken the liberty to sort of write extra chapters, just in case I don't have time later. They are not chapters of this fic though (it takes too much planning). It is a new fic, where Jon is married to Sansa and Dany both. It has three chapters and I have written it all. It is called Sworn to Ice and Fire, and it will debut next week. I hope you will like it too...
> 
> Has anyone seen Brimstone, with Kit Harington in it? I watched it recently, and I loved it so fricking much. I wrote a tiny fic for that too, but I guess I will finish this one first and keep that one in reserve... unless you guys really want to read the Brimstone fic. 
> 
> Anyways, that's the scheduling for the next month, I guess. Stick around, because GoT is stuck in my head with the new season coming!


	11. The happiest day of their lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter comes from the lyrics to Six Maids in a Pool, the song about Jonquil and Florian the Fool.

Myrcella had the feeling that most of the North was more excited about her nameday celebrations than she was.

 

Singing and dancing and mummer’s shows were all frivolities of the South, and were uncommon here, she knew. Yet they had arrived cheerfully enough from White Harbor, ready with songs and tales to appease the wolves. Myrcella was no fool. She understood and appreciated what the Winter King was doing.  _ Look at our Princess,  _ his actions seemed to say.  _ Look at how much she means to us. _

 

So there was to be singing and dancing on her nameday. She and Rosamund had spent the last week discussing the merriment that was to come, cheerfully arguing over which songs the singers would choose. It was easy to get excited. Joffrey would have insisted on a joust, regardless of what she wanted. He loved watching men kill each other at his command. For a while, they had entertained the idea of a joust too. The Queen, in particular, had wanted a tourney of some sort. She had tried to talk to King Eddard about a Kingsguard for him, insisting that valor in a tourney was the best way to choose the members, but the idea hadn’t taken root. “Our way is the old way,” the King had said, and everyone at the dinner table had nodded.

 

In a way, Myrcella liked that. King Eddard and Robb were both seasoned warriors who had never expected to sit atop a throne. They were soldiers first and foremost, and certainly did not look to be in need of someone else rescuing them from an attack. These were the men who would ride headlong into battle instead of hiding behind their knights.  

 

Besides, she had seen Robb fight. 

 

She hadn’t meant to. She had been crossing one of the covered corridors to get to the library when the clash of swords had startled her. She heard Arya’s booming laugh and was intrigued enough to slow down and peer down to the courtyard. She barely registered the fact that Robb and Arya were practicing swordplay in the courtyard. Most of her attention had been on the naked expanse of Robb’s chest.

 

She would have wondered about his missing jerkin and the cold weather if he hadn’t  _ glistened  _ in a way that made Myrcella gasp. He looked hot and flushed, and she realized they must have started under the hot noon sun. She looked around guiltily, wondering if anyone had seen her stare. She felt like she was intruding on something private, something not meant for her eyes, but that was an absurd thought. Anyone with eyes could see them. Many of the kitchen maids were staring, she noticed. She wanted to shoo them away.

 

Robb’s muscles moved sinuously as he repeatedly goaded Arya. Myrcella had felt those muscles, the honed sinew of his back, under cloth and leather. Bared, his body was a thing of beauty. It made her mouth run dry. His laugh was loud and boisterous when Arya began to curse. He was barely giving her a chance to make contact, and Myrcella thought that was really clever. She knew Arya was taking lessons from a foreigner, but Robb had enough experience to challenge her strange form of fighting. Even though Myrcella knew nothing of fighting styles, she did worry about Robb being almost naked in the path of Arya’s beloved sword. She wasn’t playing, Myrcella could see. Her thrusts were sharp and quick, the sweeps of her thin sword deadly. Robb’s longsword seemed like a giant next to it.

 

_ He doesn’t think she can touch him, _ Myrcella thought suddenly. That was the reason why he had no clothes on. Myrcella watched them for a while. It ended very suddenly, when a sudden move or two landed Arya on top of her brother, her legs clinging to him as he went down, her sword at his throat. It happened so suddenly that a couple of the kitchen maids screamed in surprise. Arya was grinning fiercely, perched on top of Robb like a little monkey. There was pride in the way he looked at her, Myrcella saw. He yielded gracefully, then got to his feet with the little monkey still clinging to his torso. Myrcella decided to flee before anyone could see her ogling.

 

She hadn’t been able to make eye contact with Robb at dinner.

  
  


Her nameday dawned bright and sunny, the dying breath of summer flaring bright. She dressed quickly in the dress Rosamund had chosen with her the night before. It had the Northern colors, for it was silver with a slate gray underskirt. The Stark colors. She understood the importance of wearing those colors. The sleeves were practical, long and close to her wrist, and the bodice was simply edged in silver, without ornament. She loved the simplicity of it, for even if it was rich fabric, it did not scream foreigner.

 

When she went downstairs to break her fast, everyone except Robb and the king was present. She smiled and thanked them for their good wishes, laughing when little Rickon decided he wanted his nameday on the morrow. It hadn’t come for ages and ages, he insisted. Myrcella nodded sagely at his problem and told him that he was very welcome to share her own.

 

Even though the castle was full to bursting with lords and their retinues, not many of them were up at this early hour. The beer and wine had flown a little too freely the night before, and most of the lords were probably still abed, or cursing into their chamber pots.

 

Princess Sansa was very excited about the mummers that had been called to court. They were doing her favorite play, she learned, about some knight named Florian and the maiden he fell in love with. Myrcella didn’t know the story, but she was excited too.

 

“Ned wanted to talk to you,” said the Queen once Myrcella was done eating her bacon. “He wanted to see you once you broke your fast.” She smiled reassuringly, and Myrcella felt the sudden knot in her chest loosen.

 

Robb was bent over the tables in his father’s solar. The King was writing something or the other, but stopped when she entered. She would have knocked, but the door had been open.

 

“Myrcella,” said the king. “Many warm wishes on your nameday, child.” His sombre voice was kind and soft. “I hope you see several more, each bringing more prosperity and joy.”

 

Myrcella blushed and wondered if this was the most he had ever spoken to her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Robb smiled at her. “There has been a letter for you,” he said without preamble. Even as her heart leapt, he hastened to add, “from Essos.”

 

Uncle Tyrion, she thought. He had written to her. He had not died. She took the letter, noticing the broken seal.

 

“We thought it was meant for me,” said the King as she read. “I didn’t know the foreign seal.” It was an explanation that wasn’t needed, and Myrcella barely paid any attention to it. Her focus was on the words.

 

He wished her glad tidings on this great day, telling her he was happy to be alive to see it. She smiled halfway through his description of the great city of Pentos, glad for his way with words. She could almost see the extravagance, the rich carpets and fruity wine. She missed him terribly, she realized. She wished he were here. Would he be welcome in the winter court? She looked up at the king and Robb. Both men were watching her, so she thanked them both, remembering her courtesies. 

 

When Robb led her out of the solar, she saw that the castle was finally waking up, and people had begun to gather in the courtyard. The mummers had erected a huge platform from timber they had brought with them, and there were boys climbing up and down the stage, setting up draperies or loudly hammering a plank into the right position. Actors yelled at the boys in annoyance, for they wanted quiet while they practiced their songs and speeches one more time.

 

“Myrcella,” said Robb, stopping suddenly. Myrcella realized suddenly that this was somewhat where she had stood when she had seen him fight Arya. Had he seen her? He hesitated before finally opening his mouth. “Happy name day wishes to you, little lion,” he said finally. “I am glad we are celebrating it with you.” He paused, chewing his lower lip. “I am glad you are with us, here. Away from… well. The unpleasant business in the South.” She smiled, opening her mouth to thank him, but he wasn’t finished. “I didn’t mean I wanted you away from your family, just… I am glad you are safe with us.”

 

She waited for him to continue, and smiled again when he didn’t. “Thank you, Robb.”

 

Robb looked as though he was going to say something else, but he clamped his mouth shut when Sansa appeared suddenly at the far end of the corridor. “There you are!” she said. “Mother has been looking for you. Come along now, Myrcella.” She grabbed Myrcella’s hand and nearly pulled her away in her enthusiasm. “It’s time for your presents!”

 

“It’s barely noon!” Robb protested. He made an aborted gesture, as if to steal Myrcella back from his sister. “Father said--”

 

“That a princess can have her presents at first light if she so chooses,” interrupted Sansa primly as Myrcella grinned. They fled, running down the corridors as fast as they could in their heavy gowns, Robb cursing and running after them. He yelled at them, urging them to slow down, to let him escort them, but Myrcella didn’t pause. The wind was in her hair, and was eager to see what presents she was going to get.

* * *

The King’s gift was  _ beautiful _ .

Her name was Aurora, and she was the perfect mare for Myrcella. Her gray coat had been brushed to perfection, but the stable hands had left her white mane free and long. It suited her, Myrcella decided as she brushed away a lock. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said demurely as every gaze in the courtyard bore into her back. “She is a wonderful and thoughtful gift.” It was, indeed, a thoughtful gift. She loved the idea of finally having her own horse, of riding in the wolfswood or down the Kingsroad. Maybe Brandon would like to accompany her.

The queen had heard of Myrcella’s taste for fireplums, and she had ordered a crate from the Reach. There were so many of them that Myrcella started to grin, then laughed out loud when little Rickon grabbed a few in his chubby little arms and dropped them in her lap. “Would you like some?” she asked him, and he nearly dove into the crate in reply.

The Queen had gifted her a mirror too. It wasn’t the beaten silver she was used to, but a shiny glass from the free cities, with some sort of paint on one side. It was taller than Myrcella in its ornate frame, and she loved it. Perhaps it was vanity, but it was still a unique object that must have been difficult to transport. She wondered if she was the only one in Westeros to own one of these. 

When she thanked the Queen, she quipped back, “It will help you better appreciate Sansa’s gift.”

Sansa gave her the most exquisitely embroidered  [ gown  ](https://s19.postimg.org/ag3t18vqb/lady-rowena-exclusive-velvet-embroideded-medieva.jpg) she had ever seen. It was a dark gray color, and the velvet was adorned with little white flowers at the hem and cuffs. Myrcella laughed when she saw the little wolf cub frolicking in the flowers around the  [ neckline ](https://s19.postimg.org/bwfbjdyn7/lady-rowena-exclusive-velvet-embroideded-medieva.jpg) . It was beautiful, and Myrcella was certain there was no way she was ever going to be so good at making clothes as Sansa. Her friend blushed prettily when she said so, and then Brandon was turning towards her to hand her his gift. Myrcella turned to Robb, confused. Where was his gift?

“These are the legends of the North,” said Brandon in a clear voice as he handed her a set of books. His voice carried well, and the Northmen gathered around him nodded their approval. “They are an interesting read, but they are more than that. They are the stories that shape us.”

“I will learn each of them by heart,” said Myrcella sincerely. “I will know them as well as any child born in the North.” She wasn’t even lying. She wondered if her Uncle Tyrion would appreciate a similar gift the next time she saw him. She smiled. “And if I have any trouble remembering the different Brandons, I will just ask Old Nan!”

Everyone around them laughed uproariously as the singers looked on in confusion. The queen nodded in approval, but Myrcella wasn’t sure what she was approving in her. She had just made a joke.

Arya struggled with the dragonbone bow that was to be Myrcella’s gift, but stubbornly refused Robb’s help. She presented the bow with a flourish once she was close enough, grinning. “I can’t make pretty things like Sansa,” she said. “But I can fight, and I think I can teach you how.”

Myrcella looked to the king, who was smiling broadly at his daughter. Robb was outright grinning. This seemed amusing to Arya’s family, but Myrcella was confused. Ladies don’t carry weapons, no matter how much they want to. She finally looked at the queen, silently begging with her eyes for permission, and her heart soared when the queen gave a slight nod.

Myrcella turned to Arya and solemnly accepted the gift. “I will train with you,” she said. “May the Gods have mercy on me.” It made everyone else laugh again. When Arya handed her the bow, she saw that the grip was adorned with drawings, and she could make out a story about a queen and a lot of ships. She realized she was squinting strangely at the gift, and stopped.

Little Rickon had been fished out of the fireplums, and he trotted up to her sullenly, irritated at the Septa. In his hand he had a bunch of winter roses, their fragrance making a few of the gathered ladies gasp. He proudly presented them to her and the Northerners began to egg him on. “I picked them myself,” he said.

“It is the most beautiful bouqet I have ever seen, my lord,” she said with a smile.

“Don’t steal your brother’s bride, little Lord!” yelled some lording, making Myrcella blush. It made the men shout more. His duty done, Rickon fled.

The noise died down when Robb left his father’s side and accepted her presents from his squire. She could feel him behind her, and it took a lot of effort to keep looking forward. Her septa had better be proud of her manners.

She nearly let out a happy cry when she recognized the objects in their ornate wooden box. “Paints,” she breathed instead. “Robb...”

“There’s canvas enough for you to paint everyday of the year,” said Robb as his squire laid out all tool after tool. “And there were too many types of brushes, so I got them all. There are replacements too. Other tools I don’t even know the name of, but I have been assured they are the best. They come from Essos, so I daresay I did not personally choose them, but...”

Myrcella wished she could jump into his arms and thank him like she wanted to. There were so  _ many  _ colors, she saw _.  _ They were beautiful, large earthen pots covered with dyed cotton to keep the paints cool. He was right. She could paint to her heart’s content. She nodded, sure that she would start wailing like a babe if she opened her mouth. Robb’s eyes softened. He waited patiently as she composed herself, then gave a jaunty little bow when she thanked him.

“I mentioned them once, Your Highness,” she said to him. “Just once, I talked of my desire to paint. And now I have enough to never worry about running out. I must thank you for your thoughtfulness, for...” she took a deep breath as her voice quavered. “For caring so much about me.” His proud grin made her smile. “Thank you for this, Robb.”

When he walked back up to the dias, he knelt to whisper in her ear, his breath tickling her ear. “It’s a letter,” he said, dropping a sealed piece of parchment in her lap. “It comes from your little brother.” When she gasped, he placed his hand tenderly on the back of her head. “Read it in privacy, little lion. There will be more if you so wish.”

As the mummers declared that they were ready to perform the tale of Jonquil and Florian, Myrcella tried to hide her happy tears. Her hands clutched the letter in a death grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name for Myrcella’s mare comes shamelessly from the fact that I have been listening to Aurora’s _Running with the Wolves_ more or less on repeat. It’s an amazing song, with fanvids on Youtube. I really, really suggest you watch them, or listen to the song. It reminds me of Arya, and of Robb and all the Starks. Even Hodor.


	12. Kisses Warmer Than Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter comes from the lyrics of the Dornishman’s wife.

There were so many gifts.

 

She hadn’t expected such extravagance from the sensible and practical Northmen, but apparently they loved the Starks enough to shower a chosen Lannister with gifts. There were yards of silk and velvet from Naath, spiced wine from the free cities, jewels that glittered in the firelight and soft slippers of every shade. She had tried to remember the names of the most important Northern houses, and had done well enough in her courtesies for the queen to smile at her again. But the line had dwindled down to nearly nothing now, and the gifts failed to excite her anymore. Sansa was already discussing the afternoon play with her friends, and Rickon was begging to go out and play in the Godswood with his direwolf again. Earlier, when the play had ended and everyone else had been cheering, Rickon had disappeared. The queen had been unconcerned, certain that her youngest child was in the godswood, and had sent Myrcella to find him. She had nodded discreetly at the letter Myrcella had been clutching, and Myrcella had fled to the godswood to read Tommen’s letter. Rickon’s wolf had found her crying afterwards, sobbing over the sweet words her brother had written, and together they had made their way back.

 

It was early in the evening for dinner, but they had all abandoned the courtyard, eager for the warmth of the Great Hall. The lords and ladies of the North had been making her acquaintance and showering her with gifts since then.

 

Singers had began singing about an hour ago, vying for attention from the guests. It wasn’t difficult to find someone to cheer along to  _ Wolf in the Night,  _ what with everyone drinking and hollering.  _ The Bear and the Maiden Fair  _ was another favorite, it seemed. Other singers at the front of the hall were trying out a few more, like  _ Bessa the Barmaid  _ and  _ A Cask of Ale.  _ Myrcella laughed with the others at the songs, and blushed deep when someone started singing  _ Her Little Flower  _ in a deep, drunken voice.

 

Robb had left with Lady Hornwood, a sad old lady who had lost her husband and heir to war. Ser Jaime had killed one, though Myrcella was not sure which. The woman had begged leave to return home after she had presented Myrcella with an ornate toilet kit, complete with a brush and comb and lavender oils for her hair. She had thanked the lady profusely before she left, with Robb escorting her to the Kingsroad. She wondered if he would be back before the feast ended. She still hadn’t thanked him for his thoughtful gift, at least not away from the drunken gazes of his men.

 

A dozen voices at the back of the hall began to sing again, breaking her out of her reverie. “And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolf!” screamed a youth with wild red hair, and the boy next to him stood up to end the verse with nearly as little talent. “And the wind itself was their song!”

 

Robb was back, and Grey Wind was prowling next to him. She saw how the guests seemed to sober up as soon as they saw the direwolf, and tried not to smile. He wasn’t dangerous, not to those he liked, at least. He was just… enormous. And even though he was a sombre wolf, a nifty little trick he had learned was to rest his chin on her head sometimes, just like Robb did when she hugged him. Unlike Robb, however, Grey Wind loved to mouth at any clip or comb that had the misfortune of being in her hair at the time. He seemed to prefer her hair down, without ornaments. She hoped man and wolf both liked the smell of her lavender oils.

 

Robb smiled at her as he passed by, taking his seat at his father’s right, but Grey Wind decided to come up to her and nudge her leg till she shifted her chair and made space for him to sprawl in, his paws resting regally on her gown. His golden eyes stared at the meat on her plate till she slid the entire chicken off onto the floor, and he was gracious enough to rip into it away from her dress. She chuckled at the thoughtfulness.

 

It was then that Myrcella realized that the hall was much quieter all of a sudden.

 

All the gazes were on her, and it made her heart pound. Had she done something wrong? Grey Wind had wanted to sit with her… was she not supposed to let him sit at the table? Shouldn’t she have fed him? He wasn’t a tame dog, she knew. But he had asked for it, in his own quiet way. How was she supposed to refuse a massive direwolf?

 

“We couldn’t possibly have run through every song in my absence,” said Robb with a laugh, and the spell was broken. Some of the men continued to stare at her, but others yelled for ale and began to sing about a Dornishman’s wife.

* * *

 

“Thank you,” she told Robb later when the revellers were stumbling to their beds and Robb was escorting her to her own. “I… The letter…”

 

“It was nothing,” said Robb, but Myrcella shook her head. She wasn’t that stupid.

 

“How did you manage it? Tommen said he wasn’t sure the letter would make it to me, and he wanted me to thank you.”

 

“There is a man in King’s Landing, someone who once helped Sansa,” said Robb. “I doubt you know of him, but he agreed to get Tommen to write the letter and bring it to a merchant in the bay.”

 

“A kind man,” observed Sansa.

 

“A greedy drunk,” countered Robb with a little venom, and Myrcella realized that the man hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart.

 

How much had been spent on her happiness? ”The gifts… the paints, it’s more than I have ever had, and… just, thank you, Robb.” It wasn’t the most eloquent of courtesies, but it made him smile.

 

“I am glad you liked it,” he said. “I was told, repeatedly, that the pots would smash if I tried to load them on a ship and put them to sea. I told the men to carry them in their laps if they had to.” He chuckled as they climbed the stairs together. “I look forward to seeing your work.”

 

“You want to  _ see  _ it?” She was mortified. “I have no teacher! I am not that good at it!”

 

Robb looked taken aback by the vehemence with which she said it. “I won’t see any of your work if you want. I simply thought…” He looked at her a moment, then shrugged. “Never mind, little lion. Perhaps one day you will make something you deem worthy of showing me.”

 

Suddenly, Myrcella felt bad. He had been earnest and supportive, and she had yelled at him. “I am sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t--”

 

Robb groaned theatrically as he stopped in front of her door. “There is no need to be sorry,” he said as he dipped his head to look her in the eye. “And certainly none to call me  _ that _ . I would be conscious of something too, if I only had myself as a teacher.” He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear like a great secret. “I am a  _ dreadful  _ teacher.”

 

Myrcella began to laugh, and Robb smiled happily. “I would very much like to kiss you goodnight, little lion,” he said suddenly, then colored a little.

 

Myrcella’s laugh died in her throat. He was looking at her carefully, and figured out her reluctance before she could even think up the words to explain. His face fell, and he began talking. “We don’t  _ have  _ to! I just wanted--”

 

Myrcella interrupted, fisting her hands in her dress. “I don’t know--”  

 

“Of course you wouldn’t want to, I smell of ale--I am sorry--”

 

“No!” Myrcella snapped the word in her panic, and he stopped talking. Even as he waited for her to explain, she struggled with the words. “I haven’t… ever,” she said. “I have never… done it before. What if… what if I did it all wrong?” What if he decided he didn’t want to marry someone who couldn’t even kiss properly?

 

“It’s just a kiss,” said Robb. He didn’t laugh at her, and she was grateful for that. “You can’t really do it wrong. I can show you, if you like.”

 

A thrill ran up and down her spine at the thought of kissing him. Without conscious thought, her gaze slipped to his lips. “You said it yourself,” she said in a strangely breathy voice. “You are a dreadful teacher.” Despite her words, she slipped back to let him enter her chambers.

 

Robb grinned as he followed. “And you said you haven’t done it before. Isn’t a dreadful teacher better than none?”

 

Even though Myrcella was sure he was wrong, she said nothing. It would end this thrilling game of theirs, and she didn’t want to stop at all. She could feel her pulse pounding in every extremity, eager and curious. He looked much larger in the closed confines of her chambers, and Myrcella suddenly wished for Rosamund to get lost on her way upstairs.

 

Robb’s eyes were fixed on hers, his gaze refusing to let hers go. His gentle smile had dimmed into a fierce kind of focus, but he was still standing a respectful distance away from her. “May I kiss you now, Myrcella?”

 

When she nodded, he stepped towards her, and Myrcella closed her eyes. They popped open when she felt his arms go around her in a hug, instead of the expected pressure of his lips on hers. When he hooked his chin on her head, she smiled at the familiar gesture. “I do believe I might have kissed you like this before, my lord,” she quipped.

 

His laughter was a huff that ruffled her hair, reminding her of Grey Wind. They stayed like that for long seconds, and Myrcella’s heart finally calmed down, surrounded by the familiar smell of leather and polish and Robb. She nosed his doublet and took a deep breath, content.

 

When Robb’s head dipped, it took her a second to realize he finally meant to kiss her. He gave her time to change her mind, to turn or walk away, his face so close yet so far. He needn’t have bothered. Her legs were frozen in place, her gaze fixed on his lips. She was more excited than scared, she realized as his breath wafted over her lips. He did smell like ale. She loved it.

 

She sighed when his lips touched hers, melting into the kiss. They were softer than she had thought they would be, even though his beard more than made up for it. He didn’t demand--his lips were gentle, supping lightly, never taking more than she could give. He tilted his head for a better fit, and her hands fisted in his doublet in reaction. His soft, wet lips teased hers, and she was in heaven. When he leaned back, she went with him, unwilling to break the connection, unwilling to stop. He groaned, and his hands flew to her waist. When his tongue lightly touched her lower lip, Myrcella gasped out loud, but Robb was stopping.

 

“No, don’t,” she mumbled, hazy. Her lips were wet.

 

Robb leaned forward again until his forehead touched hers. “Don’t?” he breathed against her face, and Myrcella noticed with glee that his lips were wet too. She had done that. She had kissed Robb.

 

“Don’t stop,” she said, her voice firmer, more demanding. He chuckled at her boldness, but she forgot to be nervous about it. “I want more.”

 

He groaned again as he quickly pecked her lips. “There is a lot more to kissing, little lion,” he said. “Don’t you think we should wait a little before your next lesson?”

 

“I am a fast learner,” said Myrcella stubbornly. She didn’t wait for him. This time, she kissed him, his lips hot and perfect under her own. Her hands slipped around his shoulders for support as she rose up on her toes, and his own wrapped around her waist.

 

“Myrcella,” he breathed against her lips, and she decided she loved the gruff sound of it. He made a sound in the back of his throat when she touched her tongue to his lower lip, so she did it again, drunk with her power.

 

They were both breathing faster when they parted. Even though her rooms weren’t particularly cold, Myrcella shivered. She liked kissing, she decided. “Well, good night, Robb,” she said finally, a giggle escaping with his name.

 

He chuckled too, murmured a good night, and left before she could ask for an encore.

 


	13. Beast in Human Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter comes from Robett Glover’s words about Ramsay Snow.

In the morning, Myrcella was mortified by her wanton behaviour. She had kissed Robb when he had wanted to stop, and she had  _ liked  _ it. If she closed her eyes and thought about it, she could feel the phantom press of his warm lips against her, his tongue gently touching her lip. She groaned as she turned over in her bed, then smiled when she remembered the sounds Robb had made.

 

Perhaps mortification could wait. She wanted to see if she could wheedle a good morning kiss out of him.

 

Robb grinned at her when she arrived to break her fast. She would have liked to be alone with him, but he was exchanging words with one of the lords, so she demurely sat at the end of the table with her food and tried her best not to blush. She couldn’t stop imagining different scenarios in her head: Robb kissing her against a tree in the godswood, Robb kissing her goodnight again, Robb kissing her in the armory, all sweaty from practice, Robb, Robb, Robb.

 

Myrcella shook her head to dislodge the thoughts and focused on her bacon. She watched as the lord--a Glover perhaps?--took his leave, and suddenly she was alone with Robb, and the only ears were those of the servants filling their goblets. She ate silently.

 

“I trust you had a good night’s rest, little lion?” asked Robb suddenly.

 

Myrcella tried not to blush. “Yes, Your--Robb.”

 

Robb wasn’t even  _ looking  _ at her. He was busy staring at his food. “I hope the… celebrations were pleasant.” Even though he was mostly having a little fun with her, she thought she heard a little uncertainty.

 

Myrcella grinned. “ _ Very  _ pleasant, my lord,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I daresay I hope we can  _ celebrate _ with such… exuberance often enough from now on.”

 

When Robb began to laugh, she joined him.

* * *

****

It was certainly difficult to find any opportunity to kiss her betrothed, exuberance be damned.

 

There were guests everywhere, and Robb was busy more often than not discussing serious topics such as the coming winter and the harvest stores. The North was isolated from the Reach in many ways now, due to the continuing war, making it difficult to believe in alliances. The Winter King did not want the North to trust anyone else in the seven kingdoms, and even the Queen seemed to agree it was good policy.

 

“We don’t know how all of it will end,” she told Myrcella once when they were sitting by the fire and embroidering. “The Reach supported a king who is now dead. We don’t know who will sit on the Iron Throne, or who will be Lord of the Reach. We don’t know who will survive the war and who will perish.” She took a deep breath and smiled gently. “So it is better to rely on ourselves, to get ready for the coming winter, and keep ourselves safe. Remember, Myrcella. It is better to be sure about your enemies, as well as your friends. Not every friend will want to help you forever, and not every friend will always be able to. Not every enemy will be an enemy forever.”

 

Myrcella had nodded and smiled at the sage words. She knew it to be true. Not long ago, Robb had been her enemy. Now, of course, he made her heart skip a beat when he entered a room. Even Rosamund had started to smirk at her knowingly every time Robb smiled at her. She had fielded her friend’s questions with increasing desperation, unsure of how much of their relationship she could reveal, unwilling to share her private joy. This budding romance was the reason for the secret smiles and spontaneous giggles between Robb and her, the reason his frowns turned into smiles when he looked at her. She was eager to keep this little secret between them.

 

So they kept the secret, and Robb escorted her to her room every night after dinner and kissed her goodnight. Well, at least they tried. More often than not, Arya accompanied them to her own room, which was half a turn above Myrcella’s own.

 

Unlike Rosamund, Arya was not that pleased by the way Myrcella was behaving around Robb. “Why do you do that?” she asked crossly one day when they stepped into the Great Hall for dinner and Myrcella’s eyes sought out Robb’s.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Smile like you are simple when you see Robb,” said Arya crossly, like Myrcella had insulted her.

 

Myrcella was too distracted to think of a clever answer. “Maybe I  _ am  _ simple and you hadn’t noticed it before.”

 

* * *

She jolted awake in the middle of the night, her heart pounding from a nightmare already receding from her mind. She tried to calm her racing heart, trying to remember the dream, afraid of what she might remember. A childish impulse urged her to call for Rosamund, but she stopped herself. She wasn’t a child any longer. It took her a few seconds to realize that there was a glimmer of light outside her window, and there was noise in the courtyard outside. What was going on? Were they under attack?

 

Quietly, Myrcella crept to the window, wincing when her feet touched the cold ground. There were men in the yard, shouting and moving with the sort of purpose they often displayed before battle. Squires held torches even as they balanced pieces of armor with practiced ease. Stable boys were hurrying between horses, heavy saddles on their shoulders. The grey direwolf was flying high on white banners, overseeing the mayhem.

 

They were leaving.

 

Myrcella stared at Donnell Locke as he armed the men, then tore away her gaze to search for Robb. What was happening? Were they at war? She grew more and more frantic as she tried and failed to find him. Where was he? Was he leaving to fight? She knew he would lead the men, he was just that sort of prince.

 

Her chilled feet carried her to the door before she realized she was wearing a soft shift and barely anything else. It took her a frantic minute to search out a heavy cloak that would cover her up properly. A dress would take too much time, and she wasn’t sure she could manage one on her own anyways. With a hasty look to check that she was decently covered, Myrcella slipped out of the room, wishing for a torch but unwilling to spend time lighting one from her hearth.

 

She almost ran into Grey Wind.

 

He had been sitting at the bottom of the steps, seemingly waiting for her. If he hadn’t moved to stand up when he saw her, she might have missed him completely. She waited, silent, as he padded next to her and gently tugged on her dress with his massive teeth.  _ Come,  _ he seemed to say, so she followed.

 

Grey Wind led her through the madness in the courtyard, through the loud men yelling at their squires and the clanging of swords. They parted for Grey Wind easily enough, and most were so preoccupied they failed to notice her as she slipped past them. She paid them no mind, nor did she lift her gaze from Grey Wind’s fur. She didn’t need to look for Robb anymore. She knew Grey Wind was taking her directly to him. 

 

They ended up slipping into the Godswood, where the calm seemed to drown out the commotion, as if the trees were soaking up the unrest. She tried not to feel uneasy in the presence of the old gods, suddenly aware that she was not a Northerner, unsure of her welcome in this place of worship. But Grey Wind was still leading her, so she followed him, until she could see the white and red of the heart tree ahead.

 

And finally, finally, there was Robb.

 

She knew instantly that he meant to leave with the men. The boiled leather and armor he wore were ill-suited to the late hour, and he was praying. She watched him mutter a few words, glad that his closed eyelids gave her the chance to observe him. She was scared for him, she realized. Scared he was going to leave on some noble quest and never return.  _ Please _ , she urged silently, willing his gods to hear.  _ Please let him come back to me. _

 

“You came,” said Robb when he opened his eyes and saw her. “I wasn’t sure that Grey Wind was going to be able to fit on the staircase...”

 

“He wasn’t, I think,” said Myrcella, her heart pounding. “I saw him when I came downstairs.” His brow furrowed, but before he could ask another question, she spoke. “Where are you going? What has happened? Are you joining the War?”

 

Robb strode towards her, his smile gentle. “No, little lion. I am off to fight the bastard of Bolton.”

 

She wracked her brains, confused. “The Dreadfort? You are going to the Dreadfort?”

 

“Aye,” he said, cupping her face with his gloved hand. She leaned into it. “The bastard was lying in wait for Lady Hornwood. He wants her lands, and he forced her to marry him… The lad who rode back to Winterfell to inform us had such wounds… He insists that Lady Hornwood is a captive against her will in this marriage.” His anger was plain to see. “Half her age he is, and a disgusting man at that.”

 

_ And you are going to lay siege upon this disgusting man _ , she thought. “Can no one else lead the men?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Robb’s smile was both kind and condescending. “I have fought bigger battles and better foes,” he said, dipping his head to look her in the eye. “I will win, little lion, and I will return safe and sound.”

 

“Yes,” she said, blushing. She didn’t want to voice her fears and sour his confidence. “Of course you will.” Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his lips, and suddenly she wanted them on hers. “You will come back to me.”

 

“I need to go oversee the men. We must leave at once.” Robb’s smile left him, leaving nothing to temper his intense focus. “I am going to kiss you again, Myrcella.” He waited for her eager nod, as always, and then finally his lips were on hers.

 

This kiss was unlike the others. There was a desperation in it, from both of them. She wondered if the cold North had turned her into a wolf too, because all she wanted in that moment was to mark him somehow, to show him that he belonged to her, to give him something to remember her by on his cold march. She was the first to use her tongue, over-eager and ravenous, twining her arms around him and shamelessly clinging to him. He grunted when she backed him into one of the trees, but he didn’t stop kissing her. He was standing close to her, so close, and she reveled in the feel of his chest against her own, of the way his strong legs felt bracketing hers.

 

“Myrcella,” he breathed against her lips, making her heart soar. His hands were running over her, desperate. “My little lion...” He turned them around, and she let out a breath as her back met the tree. His hands settled high on her waist, his thumbs deliciously close to where her heart was hammering.

 

It wasn’t enough. Myrcella wanted more, she craved him in a way that both excited and frightened her. She hated her heavy cloak for coming between them. She wanted to feel his hands on her, wanted to feel the warmth of his touch. She wanted so much more than a kiss… what was happening to her? One of Robb’s legs slipped between her own, making her mewl pitifully. It felt so good to be able to arch against him, to seek the heat of his body, the firm muscles of his sinewy thigh… Her hands were at the jeweled clasp of her cloak even before she knew it. Hardly believing her own wanton daring, she refused to meet his eyes as she unclasped her cloak and let it fall to the ground.

 

“Myrcella...” There was naked admiration in Robb’s hushed voice, in the way he nibbled behind her ear, his harsh breathing ruffling her hair. She should have been cold, but even in her flimsy night dress, she felt ablaze. Her nerves were humming, her body straining towards her prince.

 

She gasped when his hands moved, finally covering her breasts. She would have screamed if she had the breath for it. Instead, she pawed at him restlessly, nearly sobbing, eager to touch. His leg was firmly planted against the tree now, and she couldn’t stop moving against it. She knew her gown had ridden up above her knee, knew she was being improper, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She wanted… she wanted something she couldn’t even name. Her torment grew tighter and tighter inside her, like a slingshot aimed for too long. It was delicious and scary at the same time. “Robb,” she sobbed in desperation. “Robb.”

 

“I am right here, little lion,” he rasped next to where he was pressing eager kisses to her throat. “I am here. Seven hells, Myrcella, I shouldn’t... ” He didn’t finish his lamentation, and for that Myrcella was glad. She couldn’t think of what they should or shouldn’t do, only of him, of his hands stroking the points of her breasts, of his leg supporting her limp weight, of the smell and the feel of him in her arms. She latched onto the back of his head, unwilling to let him go, and he obliged by kissing her neck with wet, sloppy kisses.

 

Myrcella stilled when one of his hands left her breast to travel down her body, both disappointed to lose that contact and eager for this new development. “Robb?” she said. She had meant to sound daring, but her voice was a hoarse whisper, shaking with some carnal feeling she couldn’t name.

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he said, leaning back to look into her eyes. His hand stopped on her belly. “It’s okay, little lion... ” He licked his lips, his gaze both focused and distracted. “I can help you, I can--oh, seven hells...” He tilted his head. “You’ve never…?”

 

Myrcella knew he was asking her a question, but she didn’t know what it was. Something in her desperate stare must have answered him, for he groaned and leaned forward once again to claim her lips. “I shouldn’t...” He sounded tortured as he said it, and he didn’t stop stroking her breast. The other hand twitched, rebellious, and suddenly Myrcella wanted to know what he was talking about.

 

“Show me,” she said boldly, her cheeks aflame. “Show me, Robb.”

 

When his hand slipped lower to rub between her legs, Myrcella was so stunned by the contact that she forgot to protest such impropriety. Her breath left her in a long, keening sound before it returned in harsh, sobbing breaths. His thumb was circling her, down there, and it felt  _ amazing. _ All the tension in her body started to gather where his talented fingers were working, where her hips were starting to move in the rhythm he had set up. He had taken his leg away, but his strong arm was still supporting most of her weight. She stared at him, drowning in his dark gaze as his fingers, his touch became the only thing that mattered. She heard her own wanton moan when the pressure in her finally,  _ finally  _ melted, too caught up in the moment to feel ashamed, too breathless with feeling to care. 

 

When she found enough strength in her languid limbs to move, she hugged him fiercely. To her surprise, Robb groaned, but he smiled pleasantly enough at her. “Are you in pain?” she asked, confused.

 

His smile turned into a strained laugh. “Yes, little lion,” he said. “The best kind of pain...” He didn’t elaborate, even though she asked him once more before it was time for him to leave.

 

“He will come back,” she told herself as she saw the men ride out. “He will come back to me.”

 

Still, she strained to keep her eyes on him and Grey Wind. She had ripped the hem of her cloak to give him her favor, and the bright green fabric winked at her right before they disappeared completely into the night.

 

“He will be back soon,” she whispered to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me, this was not supposed to go this far... I was just gonna let Robb properly use tongues or something and then WHAM! First orgasm. #sorrynotsorry


	14. Red Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter comes from the polite reference to menstruation in Westeros.

The waiting was torture.

 

Everyone had tried to lift her spirits in the morning, but Myrcella could see the worry in their faces. There were worse battles being fought in the south, but the thought brought her no joy. All it took was a stray blade or a flying arrow, and Robb would be lost forever. She wondered how the queen managed it sometimes, wondered about the tremulous bravado in her eyes. Wondered if this waiting would get any easier with time.

 

Three nights after he left, Myrcella dreamed of her prince. He slipped into her room, keeping to the shadows till he leaned over her and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm, and she nearly sobbed when she felt them against her once more. He had come back to her. She tried to lift her arms, to embrace him, but her arms refused to listen to her, so she stopped struggling, sank back down into her furs, and let him kiss her worries away. 

 

Her relief turned quickly to horror when he leaned back, exposing his gaping throat, unaware of the blood seeping out of his wound. 

 

“Goodbye, little lion,” he said, and Myrcella began to scream so loud that Old Nan hobbled into her room to check on her. She told Myrcella stories about little princesses and their gallant knights till dawn. Myrcella thanked her profusely for the company.

 

Heavy-eyed and resolute, she sought Arya out after breaking her fast. Her friend was in the first place she looked--sitting atop a table chatting with her friend in the forge. It was too hot in there, but Arya didn’t seem to mind. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Myrcella, even as her friend bowed deep. 

 

Myrcella ignored the blacksmith. “Teach me,” she demanded, and Arya grinned fiercely at her.

 

By the light of the noon sun, Myrcella learned how to nock arrows and how to relax her arms without dropping her bow. She was horrible at it, and Arya took great joy in telling her so, but it kept her mind occupied, so she persevered. Her arms were burning by lunchtime, and she wasn’t so sure anymore about her weapon of choice.

 

“A sword hurts too,” said Arya sagely, lightly touching her own skinny blade where it hung at her waist. “It burns your arms to heft it and to swing it.” She paused to swallow her mouthful. “It takes a lot of effort to stick it in someone, to make sure it pokes out the other side,” she continued nonchalantly.

 

“Arya!” said Sansa, scandalized. “Can we talk of other things?” She had met them in the Great Hall for lunch, and had promised to come see Myrcella practice on the morrow. Now it seemed she was regretting her decision to sit with them.

 

“Daggers?” said Arya with an impish grin. “You have to be tall to use one.” She shrugged. “And I suppose it takes effort to slice through someone then too.”

 

This time, Sansa groaned and said nothing.

* * *

A couple of days after she began her lessons, Myrcella woke up at dawn to piss, and came back to find bloodstains on her furs.

 

She stared at the stain for a while, unsure. Had she gotten her moon blood? It didn’t look like blood, not really. It was more brown than red, and there was so little of it that Myrcella was confused. She lit a candle to see properly, and saw that her smallclothes were stained too.

 

She was a woman now.

 

She stood there for a while, trying not to be afraid, trying to be brave. What did this mean? She wished suddenly she could fly to her mother, just for an affectionate embrace, but it was not to be. Rosamund did hug her sleepily when called, and she was quick to help Myrcella dress. It was too early to wake any of the servants, so they simply coiled her hair in a braid, and then they went looking for the queen. She needed to be told.

 

Myrcella had been sure everyone would be asleep, but she found both the king and queen in the Great Hall, deep in a discussion with the maester. There were a couple of other men too, but Myrcella wasn’t sure she recognised them in the low light. Something had happened, she knew instantly. The king was frowning, and the queen was whispering fiercely. She wondered if one of the maids had woken up and ran to tell the queen that her flower was blooming. Was it so important?

 

“Myrcella!” said the queen when she finally saw her standing awkwardly in the side entrance. “What are you doing here, child?” Her tone was not unkind, merely surprised.

 

Myrcella blushed crimson when she realized the eyes of the men were upon her. “I… It was a private matter, my lady,” she said timidly. Her eyes were fixed on the stone beneath her feet. “Could I… borrow you for a word?”

 

The queen smiled reassuringly, excusing herself to huddle with Myrcella in the stairwell. She beamed when Myrcella was finally able to finish stammering out a sentence. “That’s wonderful news, Myrcella!” she said, her smile widening. Myrcella was surprised when Lady Stark hugged her. She timidly hugged back, breathing deep. “Are you in pain, then?” the queen asked, her head still resting on Myrcella’s shoulder, then laughed when she shook her head no. “Ah, the resilience of youthful bodies.”

 

In a few minutes, a couple of maids had been woken up to assist Myrcella with padding her small clothes, her furs had been whisked away, and the queen had insisted she go back to sleep in one of the other rooms. “It’s too early for you to be up and about,” she said, and Myrcella agreed. She was led to a room that apparently had once belonged to the bastard of Winterfell.

 

“There has been news,” she said, once Myrcella was sitting up in the narrow bed, with the firelight and ginger tea lulling her back to sleep. 

 

“Robb?” asked Myrcella, straightening instantly, nearly sloshing her tea.

 

The queen shook her head as she took a seat next to Myrcella. “From King’s Landing, child.” She hurried on when she saw the horror on Myrcella’s face. “Your Uncle Stannis attacked from the sea. He lost the battle.”

 

Myrcella had to wet her suddenly dry lips before she could speak. “My mother...”

 

“Is safe,” said the queen quickly. “Your uncle Jaime seems to have sustained a few injuries--”

 

“Uncle Jaime was hurt in the battle?” Her voice was high and shaky.

 

“He will live, apparently,” said the queen. “Your brothers are safe too. I believe there were no Lannister casualities.” She nodded when Myrcella thanked her for the news. “I wish I had more,” she said unhappily. “But the southerners still mistrust us. I don’t even know where Stannis is. Some say he burned, others say fire cannot harm him.”

 

Myrcella thought about her uncle Stannis for a long while after the queen left her. She had only met him once, and she didn’t remember him at all, but he had been her uncle. Was he really dead? Myrcella was once again unsure of how to feel. She wished Robb were here, to give her a hug that would shut out the world for a while.

 

The sun was high enough in the sky when Myrcella gave up on sleeping and left the bed.

 

The queen sought her out once more that afternoon. Myrcella was practicing with her bow again, and Arya was sitting on a fence nearby, hurling constructive abuse at her. The queen smiled when Myrcella showed her how she had learned to put enough strength in her draw to carry her arrow to the target. Arya was quick to point out that she still couldn’t aim and was worse than Bran.

 

“I would like to talk to you, Myrcella,” said the queen eventually.

 

“What about?” demanded Arya suspiciously. “You can’t stop her from learning!”

 

“I don’t intend to,” said the queen with infinite patience. “I mean to talk to her about some womanly things.” Arya wrinkled her nose and didn’t comment any further.

 

Myrcella’s moon blood barely hurt her, though it was scary to be bleeding so much. It was a curious thing, the mark of a woman. Once they were both in her solar, the queen explained to her, in halting words, that she would be able to have children now. They both turned red when Robb was mentioned.

 

“You will have to be careful,” said the queen resolutely, steeling herself for words she didn’t wish to say. “Robb is… he is a responsible boy, but a boy nonetheless, and I have seen the way he sometimes looks at you. But you are a child still, Myrcella. Having your moon blood does not mean you are a different person than you were last week. There has to be a line you two don’t cross until you are wed.”

 

Myrcella wished dearly to jump out the window of her solar and disappear into the night, but she took a deep breath and braced herself. She was a woman now, and she needn’t shy away from practical matters. “What...” her voice was too high and thin, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “What line is that, Your Grace?”

 

The queen smiled. “I will make sure Robb knows as soon as he comes home. Ned should have to dispense some uncomfortable wisdom too.”

* * *

Myrcella wondered if the queen meant for them to stop kissing, because she wasn’t sure she  _ could  _ stop. The phantom feel of Robb’s lips on her own warmed her through the nights without him, and the memory of his hands ghosting over her body was a welcome distraction from the worry. 

 

He had changed her somehow, with the way he had touched her. She thought of that tight feeling inside her often, the one his gentle hands had coaxed out of her. She would blush in the middle of her day because she would suddenly remember the insistent pressure of his thumb between her legs, and she hoped dearly the queen did not mean to take it away from her.

 

One night, while she was still bleeding, she awoke from a dream to find herself sweaty and shaking, with a hand slipped inside her smallclothes. Her hips arched as she remembered blue eyes and soft lips from her dream, and she hesitantly tried to touch herself like Robb had. It wasn’t enough, and she was too clumsy, but it felt so good… she closed her eyes to think of him, and suddenly it was easier to imagine he was here with her, whispering into her ear. 

 

“My little lion,” he would say with a kiss. “My sweet girl.”

 

Her hand moved languorously, the circular motion getting tighter and tighter even as the pleasure built inside her. She grabbed a handful of fur with her other hand and bit into it to make sure no one heard the sounds that were slipping out of her mouth. The fur was soft on her face, like Robb’s hair had been when he bent to suckle at her teats. It was the phantom feel of his lips on her breasts that finally ignited her passion, and she moaned her way to completion.

 

The queen had better be talking about something else. Myrcella was never giving this up. 


	15. Pure Iron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter refers to Stannis Baratheon. Donal Noye used these words to describe him to Jon, once upon a time.

Waiting for news was the worst torture Myrcella had ever had to endure. She tried to go about her day without bothering the King or Queen for news, but it was hard not to strain her ears for the sound of a raven in the sky, to stop her archery practice abruptly when she saw Maester Luwin hurry to the Great Keep. She was better at waiting than Arya was, certainly, because her friend kept demanding news of her brothers, steadily annoying everyone so much that pretty soon Princess Sansa had stopped trying to converse with her.

 

Arya was worried about the bastard at the Wall too, because of his letters insisting there was going to be an attack soon. The King and Queen were divided on what to do with the information, which the King seemed to find credible. Myrcella had shivered the first time she had heard such tales, worried the wildlings would steal her away, but the Queen insisted that the boy was telling tall tales to mask the fact that he had done something dishonorable. Myrcella wondered what it was, but the Queen never got a chance to explain, because Arya had begun to scream. Their Septa had to take Arya away, and she slept without her dinner that day.

 

Apparently, the bastard was telling the truth, because Myrcella woke one morning to the news that wildlings had attacked Castle Black, and tried to climb the Wall once again. Everyone had a new tale to tell about the battle, but at least Arya was happy her favorite brother survived.

 

“He’s good at fighting,” said Arya sagely as she watched Myrcella try to hit her target. Arrows littered the ground beneath the straw man, but Arya had decided not to make fun of her that day. She was in too good a mood. “There was a big fire, the biggest fire Westeros has ever seen. He says he was afraid for a minute, but then he wasn’t. They have a few wildling prisoners, but Jon says the battle was just a taste.”

 

“He sounds like a very nice man,” said Myrcella. “I would love to meet him one day.”

 

“I want to see him again,” said Arya wistfully. “Maybe father will let me go see him. I could fight him, show him how good I am with Needle!” She had ran after the men that the King had sent to Wall last night, insisting they carry a letter for Jon Snow. She had even wanted to send some pies, but decided against it in the end, fearing that not even a crumb would survive the long road.

 

Myrcella didn’t mention how unlikely it was that the Queen would allow her to go meet her bastard brother. Before she could think of a polite lie, there was a commotion at the gates, with several of the sentries yelling all at once. Someone was coming.

 

Ser Arys hurried out of the kitchens where he had disappeared to steal pastries a while ago. “Come with me, now,” he told them, and the girls obeyed quietly. 

 

“It could be Robb,” said Myrcella as they hurried into the Great Keep. 

 

“Robb would have written before he left the Dreadfort,” said Ser Arys, his eyes narrowed as he led both girls up the stairs.

 

“The guards don’t seem happy,” observed Arya. 

 

Myrcella nodded as Ser Arys ushered them into her bedroom. Were they under attack? She clutched her bow and wished she had thought of bringing some arrows with her. 

 

“Don’t leave till I come for you two,” Ser Arys told them before he bid them close the door behind him. 

 

Myrcella shivered with apprehension. Arya sat with her, brow creased in worry, as they waited for news. There were men in the courtyard, almost a hundred of them, with tired horses and dirty armor. Both girls took turns looking out the tiny window to decipher what was happening.

 

“I see a white banner,” said Myrcella uncertainly. Was it a peace banner or a banner with a white background? She strained her eyes, trying to see the banner more clearly. 

 

“That’s Father!” said Arya, pointing at the King, who was talking to a stern-looking man who looked dead on his feet. Men that had rushed out of the barracks seemed to have gone back inside, and Myrcella took a relieved breath. Nobody seemed eager to fight.

 

They watched for a while, until the door opened and Princess Sansa slipped into the room. “You are needed downstairs,” she said to Myrcella with a smile. “Your Uncle Stannis has come to ask Father for help.”

* * *

Myrcella’s Uncle Stannis was a very stern man, grim and stoic. It seemed as though he had no patience for her curtsies, for he merely grunted at her in greeting. He scared her.

“You are marrying your heir to her?” he asked the King with a nod towards her. Myrcella hated the way he spoke, but instead of arguing, she decided to stare at the fresh wound on his forehead. It looked bad.

“Yes,” said the King with a sigh, shifting slightly in his chair. “If there is no one else, you could give her away--”

“I will do no such thing,” said her uncle abruptly, his tone harsh. “I share no blood with her.”

The King looked at her, his eyes kind. “Your uncle has had a difficult journey, Myrcella,” he said. “He doesn’t mean to imply anything untoward.” He ignored the huff of impatience from her uncle, and spoke before Uncle Stannis could refute the polite lie. “Run along now, I believe Sansa wanted to ask you about something.”

Myrcella nodded, glad to be excused from the uncomfortable conversation. “I am not  _ implying _ anything,” she heard her uncle say. “You know she is just a bastard, born of--”

The door slammed shut, and Myrcella heard nothing else of the conversation. When Sansa found her crying in the Sept, she said nothing at all, choosing instead to sit by her side and pray with her.

Spending time alone with Sansa had not been easy ever since Myrcella came to Winterfell. They had too much history to start anew, too much troubles of the past they could never fully forget. Myrcella was acutely aware of how naive she had been, how she had seen Sansa at the lowest point of her life and done nothing at all. She remembered the way Joffrey had talked to her, remembered the way her mother had treated their captive. She had never let all of that worry her, never argued against any of it, and now her childish acceptance of Sansa’s life at the Red Keep made her feel guilty. She never really knew what to say to Sansa.

Thankfully, Sansa didn’t mind the silence. They prayed together till Myrcella’s tears dried, and then Sansa accompanied her back to the Keep. Myrcella painted all afternoon, stopping for supper only once the light grew so bad it was hard to discern the colors. She didn’t go downstairs for dinner, choosing instead to stay in her room.

It wasn’t difficult to avoid Stannis at all. He disliked her on principle, and she had no reason to seek out his insults. Winterfell was big enough for both of them, and she decided early on that she was going to be courteous if she ever saw him. Thankfully, she didn’t. It was worth the price of sending for her meals. The Great Hall was too crowded anyways, Arya reported, what with all the knights and the officers from Stannis’ army. They were stationed outside the walls of Winterfell, eating from their stores, while the Winter King decided what to do with them. There was a Red Priestess from Essos, the first one that Myrcella had ever met, and a very peculiar onion knight. He had been sad, but friendly with her. The Red Priestess, on the other hand, had mostly ignored her. That was just as well. Her red eyes made Myrcella’s skin crawl with their all-seeing stare.

Her uncle kept company with some very strange people.

“He’s sick,” said Dyanne, her maid, a few days after his arrival at Winterfell. “Your uncle, King Stannis. He’s running a high fever, and now Maester Luwin says my friend Claryse has to mop up his sweat and the like.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste and went back to combing through Myrcella’s hair. “He’s sick off that big bruise on his forehead. It’s rotted.”

Myrcella didn’t really know what she meant. She hummed in vague sympathy, but didn’t let it concern her. “He will be alright,” she said absentmindedly. 

Dyanne shook her head but said nothing. She kept combing, and stayed silent as she meticulously twisted her hair into a braid. “He had a daughter,” she said when she was done, her tone harsh and strange.

“Shireen,” murmured Myrcella, suddenly wondering where her cousin was. Why had no one mentioned her? “Yes, I remember now. I don’t think I have met her.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Dyanne. “He wails her name twice every minute now, what with the fever. Begs his daughter for forgiveness.”

Myrcella shivered despite the warmth of the fire. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know, milady,” said Dyanne. “But his men have told the kitchen maids some troubling tales. Tales of witchcraft from that Red Woman that follows him everywhere, tales of his queen’s death. They say the Onion Knight almost killed him in a fight before they got here.” She took a deep breath. “The sooner we get rid of him, the better.”

Myrcella decided that she was suddenly very glad that the Red Priestess was ignoring her. 


	16. A Good Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter comes from a quote about Willas Tyrell. Margaery was telling Sansa all about him.
> 
> I played with POVs this time around, because the peculiars of character motivations are often lost on a thirteen-year-old. I know you guys are pissed at Ned for not marching to Castle Black, but you have to understand: he has no official report of an unmanageable threat, no official summons by a Lord Commander, and he has a boy who insists giants and White Walkers exist. He is right in wondering if Jon is an unreliable source. Alas, that is the predicament of our Misunderstood Hero with a seeming monopoly on the Cassandra Truth trope.
> 
> Also, a word of caution: I don’t like Stannis, at all. I didn’t like him in the show, and then he ended up burning his daughter alive. So, yeah. No. I don’t like him. He will die in the next chapter, and I make no apologies. He has served the story, he has brought an army to the North, and now… Well, Valar Morghulis, you kinslayer.

Ned Stark, the King of Winter, had woken up from a troubled sleep with a headache that seemed to have settled into his head three days ago, with no intention of leaving.

 

The damned headache had started the day that Stannis Baratheon led his ragged army to Ned’s doorstep, demanding that Ned bend the knee and come with him to secure the Iron Throne that was his by right. Ned believed in Stannis’ claim, and he had told the stern man as much, but the North had already been torn apart by war. Winter was coming, and Northerners were needed at home.

 

Cat had seemed surprised when Ned had told Stannis, in no uncertain terms, that he would not kneel. “The North does not belong to the Iron Throne anymore,” he had said, and he meant it. The singers were already starting to call his kingdom the Winterlands, and it suited him well enough. Binding his people to the treachery and intrigue of the South would be a huge mistake, he knew that now. His people trusted him to lead them, to make the right decisions for him, and to keep them safe. “Let the southron kingdoms fight their bloody battles as they please. We take no part in them.”

 

Stannis had not been pleased, and would certainly have said a lot more, but his Hand, the Onion Knight, stepped in to thank Ned and whisk away his king. That was just as well. After the way Stannis had insulted Robb’s betrothed, he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his anger at bay.

 

“What will you do with him?” Cat had asked him that night when he visited her chambers. “His army, small as it is, will eat through our winter stores.”

 

Ned hadn’t answered, but he had thought through the problem all night. Stannis was the rightful king of the other kingdoms, he deserved Ned’s help and his respect. But no Northern bannerman would be willing to march south again so soon, he was certain. This wasn’t his war.

 

With morning had come the news that the nasty wound on Stannis’ head had started to fester. Ned had heard the news grimly, aware of the dangers of a rotting wound, and told Maester Luwin to use whatever means necessary to keep Stannis alive. At Cat’s suggestion, he had allowed a number of Stannis’ knights to visit him, to see the injury just in case the wound killed him. He didn’t want an angry army to blame him for the death of their king.

 

Stannis’ army kept shrinking without a clear reason. Many of the men deserted, and horses seemed to get stolen from the stables at alarming rates until Ned posted some of his own men and the door. There were troubling whispers of blood sacrifices and fire worship, but Ned tried very hard not to listen to such rumors. He had much bigger problems to deal with.

 

There was still no news from Robb, which was to be expected, but was still nerve-wracking. He wondered how men sent their children to war, how Cat had done it when he was stuck in a dungeon. He wished there were some news, but he knew that the only way he would get any was when Robb won and sent a raven after taking the Dreadfort. The other possibility didn’t bear thinking about.

 

With Jon, the problem was not a lack of news, but an abundance of it. Weeks ago, Jon had written him a long letter, telling Ned that he had spent some time with the wildlings North of the Wall, and that the Night’s Watch needed his help. He had reported on the strength of the wildling army, as well as the giants and White Walkers he claimed to have seen North of the Wall. The talk of mythical beasts had made Ned uncomfortable, and he wasn’t alone. Ser Alliser had written to him merely two days later, explaining that there was no need to panic, and that the Watch had everything under control. His words heavily implied that Jon was exaggerating.

 

That had been a lie. Castle Black had nearly fallen when the wildlings attacked, leaving Ser Alliser injured, and now Ned wasn’t quite certain what to do. The Old Bear was dead. He hadn’t officially been asked to come to their aid, and he had told Jon as much. What could he do, really, without a proper summons from Castle Black. The boy had sent no replies back. Ned assumed that the new Lord Commander would soon send for his army, and then Ned would have to lead his men against the wildlings. The boy would understand.

 

He knew he was going to have to ride North soon, and his bannermen had been warned. The immediate attack on Castle Black was over, so Ned knew they now had the time to choose a new Lord Commander. It was possibly going to be Ser Alliser. He was a hard man, but smart enough to ask for help. Ned's army was gathering, and he decided to give the Night's Watch two more days to ask him for help. If they didn't send a summons in that time, he would mobilize his army and go meet them at Castle Black, taking stock of the situation himself. There might not be giants or White Walkers, but the idea of a hundred thousand wildlings made the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Jon couldn't be making _all_ of it up.  

 

“I wish for the simpler times of summer,” he told Cat one morning. His mood was exceptionally sour, and he found no reason to hide it.

 

“Is it the king dying beneath our roof, or the threat of wildlings that has you frowning into your bacon?” Cat asked with a quick smile that he tried to return.

 

“Both,” he confided. “I should send our men North. Castle Black almost fell to wildlings. Jon said--”

 

“A hundred thousand men is a bit too much for the boy to claim,” snapped Cat instantly, making Ned regret saying the boy’s name. “Ser Alliser mentioned he broke his vows.” Her expression seemed to say she expected nothing better from the boy. “I am assuming he made up the tall tale to ensure his head remained on his shoulders.” Ned opened his mouth to argue, but she continued. “You have received no summons, no request for help.”

 

Before Ned could talk of the lack of a Lord Commander, Maester Luwin entered the Great Hall where they were breaking their fast to hand Ned a letter. “From King’s Landing, Your Grace,” he said instantly, crushing Ned’s hope that Robb had finally written. _Dark wings, dark words._

 

He read quietly before passing the letter to Cat. The news was not wholly unexpected. “Send for Myrcella and Sansa.”

* * *

Sansa didn’t quite know how to feel.

 

She didn’t know Margaery Tyrell, the lady of Highgarden. She was said to be courtly and beautiful, but Sansa had never seen her. Nevertheless, she was scared for this girl she had never met.

 

“I don’t want him to marry _anyone,_ ” she blurted vehemently before she remembered Myrcella sitting next to her. “Pardon me, my lady, I only meant--”

 

“You are right,” said Myrcella calmly. “No one should be at his mercy, for he has none.” She smiled sadly at Sansa. Suddenly it was easy to see that this girl had lived with that monster, had been a witness to his cruelty. Had Joffrey ever harmed Myrcella?

 

“Do you wish to attend the wedding, Myrcella?” asked Father. “We have been invited.”

 

Both girls were surprised, to say the least. Leaving home, with winter fast approaching, did not seem like an option, not really. Why was Father even thinking about it?

 

“I would… like to, Your Grace,” said Myrcella diplomatically. “If it pleases you.”

 

Father hummed and rubbed his jaw in thought. “I have to talk to Sansa, now,” he said finally. “May we have a moment alone?”

 

Myrcella nodded eagerly, and left with a curtsy. Sansa felt dread fill her insides as her father looked at her. There was kindness in his eyes, and pity. She didn’t want his pity. Did he think she was too weak to face Joffrey? With her father, her family, beside her, she would stand in front of him, and make sure he knew she was stronger than he had thought she was. She would show him that he had failed to break her. Would Queen Cersei like her ferocity?

 

“There has been a separate letter from Lord Tyrell, Sansa,” her father said. He was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “He wishes to ask for your hand in marriage, for his heir Willas.”

 

For a few long, interminable moments, Sansa was struck dumb with fear. She wanted to laugh and cry at her own stupid thoughts from a few moments ago. She had no claim to her family’s protection. She was a highborn lady, destined to be married off to one man or the other, and suddenly she was very, very afraid. She did not know Lord Tyrell’s heir, and now she was to be _married_ to him. At his mercy, with no one to help her, to come to her aid if--if--

 

Her Father’s arms around her quelled some of her panic, making her blink back her tears. “Sansa,” he said into her hair, and she simply wanted to weep till all the terror seeped out of her, leaving her hollow. “It’s alright, child,” he whispered. “By all reports, Willas Tyrell is a good man.”

 

It took Sansa three tries to say her words with enough conviction. “As it pleases you, Father,” she said dutifully.

 

He stepped back and behind his desk again, shaking his head. “No, no, not as it pleases me,” he said. “As it pleases _you_.” He smiled at the confused sound she made. “We are going South to attend this royal wedding. Meet this boy, talk to him. See if you like him, would like to marry him.”

 

“I wanted to marry Joffrey,” Sansa pointed out. “I forced you to say yes.”

 

Father conceded that point with a nod. “But this time, we decide as a family. Your mother, Robb, even Arya get a say in your future husband. But most of all, it is your choice. You are not the child who fell for Joffrey’s false charms, not anymore. You decide if you like this boy, and then I will answer his father, not before.”

 

Sansa blinked away the tears she could feel gathering in her eyes. With a deep breath, she unclenched her fists from her gown, smoothing down the wrinkles to give her time to form an appropriate reply. She doesn’t know what to say. She is afraid, afraid of going South like she had dreamt of all her life, afraid of being married to a stranger. But there is strength and a quiet purpose in her father’s words. She will not be beholden to this man. She has the power here.

 

“Thank you, Father,” she says finally.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might end up playing with Willas’ age a little, as well as his personality and what we know about him. I love Sansa, and I want him to be a man worthy of my baby. Does anyone mind if Margaery is 17, Loras 18, Garlan 19, and Willas just 20 years old? That way, he will be a good match for 14-year-old Sansa. Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Also, guys, it's not like Ned doesn't want to help the Night's Watch, or that he is unwilling to help. He is ready to help them, but he hasn't been officially asked. Jon has asked him to help, but Jon is a green boy, a steward who has no experience (according to Ned). On the other hand, the acting Lord Commander, Alliser Thorne, insists things are just fucking dandy. It's hard to trust Jon's claims of White Walkers and giants (neither of which are real in Ned's mind) over those of the guy in charge of the Night's Watch. He is ready to help, and he WILL help if he doesn't get news soon.


	17. Take Your Swords North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter name is taken from a quote by Osha, who insisted that Robb should take his swords North instead of South. Ned Stark is finally going to send men to the Wall. Again, my apologies for quickly dispatching Stannis, but I have no need of him now. Also, for the purposes of my story, let’s say Stannis marched his army to Winterfell instead of sailing there, okay? Okay.

The fever took away Stannis Baratheon, the rightful king of the seven kingdoms, on a beautiful autumn morning. He left behind no children, a fact he lamented in a letter he wrote before his untimely death. It had been handed to Ser Davos the night before he passed away, written by a clammy, shaking hand, sealed with the Baratheon seal. 

 

“This kingdom, and all the others, are mine by right,” read Ned Stark the following morning. “But I am too weak and frail to outrun this blasted rot, and all my kin are dead. I am the last Baratheon, and have no one left to remember my name. This is the punishment of the Gods, for my crimes, for Shireen, for Renly, for kinslaying.” Davos’ suspicious eyes met Ned’s. The words sounded damning. “I have neither kingdom nor castle to leave, and no children left to leave it to. In the end, I have failed to do my duty, failed to honor my destiny. I know not what will become of my army. Give it to one of Robert’s bastards for all I care, there’s plenty enough. Or Eddard Stark can keep them all, if he can feed them all through winter. Lord Seaworth has served me well, and I believe he will decide well for my men.” Ser Davos took a deep breath before Ned continued. “Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the--”

 

“I know all he was King of.” Ser Davos’ voice was gruff with emotion.

 

For a while, Ned was silent. He wished there had been more he could have done for the man he did consider the rightful king, for the family of his best friend, for the House he had helped seat upon the Iron Throne. King Joffrey ruled as a Baratheon, he knew, but he wasn’t one. Neither was Myrcella. The lack of any reference to Cersei’s children was very telling. Speaking of children... 

 

“What happened to the princess?” he asked Ser Davos. “To the queen?”

 

The man shook his head. “I do not know, Your Grace,” he said. “I was sent to the Vale, to try and gather their support to our cause.” His brow furrowed. “A fool’s errand… they turned me away at the Bloody Gate.” He sighed, and suddenly it was easy to see how much the loss of the princess meant to him. “I have been told the princess slipped past her guards to go for a swim in the Fever River, but the current was too strong. Queen Selyse heard her… her screams and--” It took the kind knight a few seconds to compose himself. “The princess couldn’t be saved,” he continued. “And the queen died trying.”

 

Ned thought, once again, of the rumors about rituals and sacrifice. “And you believe these claims?”

 

For a long while, the Onion Knight was silent. He stared at the man, weighing his words carefully. Did he believe this version of events as given to her by the Red Lady? Shireen had been smart, clever beyond her years. She wasn’t a babe to go running into dangerous waters. And the queen had known how to swim. Had the river really been too choppy? Then why did the princess decide to swim?

 

“I do not know, your Grace,” he said finally, his head bowed in defeat. He felt like the weight of the world was somehow balanced on his shoulders.

 

Ned dismissed him soon after, telling him to mourn his dead king in whatever manner suited his men. The Florents had all but disappeared, and Ser Davos seemed like the only man left to mourn his king. The Red Priestess hadn’t been seen all day, insisting she be left alone in her room with fires blazes in the hearth.

 

Saddened and burdened, Ned made his way to the Godswood. Perhaps the gods would help bring clarity to his thoughts. He had asked Ser Davos to decide what he was going to do, and soon. They needed to know if they were going to have hundreds of men dependent on them come winter. Who was left to lead the army? The men would want to go home. Winter was coming, and with it came the deep snows that would trap these men in the North. Ned didn’t want that. They had already barely survived a snowstorm that had threatened to end their lives near Fever River, when they had camped near Moat Cailin. However, the only tragedy had been the death of Selyse and Shireen. 

 

Peace seemed to rein in the godswood. Somehow, the distant sounds of the kitchen as well as the clamor from the stables seemed muted, hidden from his ears by his gods. A peaceful gift, he thought with a smile. The red leaves of the heart tree seemed to call to him, waving in welcome, and he sank gratefully to the ground before it. He let himself be sad, feel pity and anger and all those emotions a king should never let anyone else see, wishing there was something he could do for Robert’s kin, for his House. 

 

One of Robert’s bastards was still alive, the boy he had seen in King’s Landing. But Ned doubted the boy wanted anything to do with power and politics. He had hinted enough times that the boy knew who had fathered him, and seemed resolutely unimpressed by the idea. He seemed like a good lad, but he didn’t seem like someone an army could rally behind. 

 

Besides, all this was none of his business. He knew Ser Davos to be a good man, an impression even Cat seemed to have formed of him in a very short amount of time. Ned trusted him to make the right decision for the people Stannis had left under his command, even though he was plagued by doubts about the death of the little princess.

 

The death of the child saddened him further. It was painful to think about, that she had drowned so close to Winterfell. He wondered if Stannis had tried to find the bodies. He wondered what he would do if Arya fell into a river. He would blame himself, like Stannis did in his last letter.

 

“Ned,” came Cat’s soft call behind him. He shook himself out of his melancholy thoughts before turning to smile at her, a smile she returned. 

 

“There’s been a raven,” she said, and Ned was suddenly reminded of the last time she had brought him news in the godswood.  _ Dark wings, dark words.  _ “It’s Robb,” she continued as she came to stand next to him.

 

“He wrote?” Ned demanded, his hands reaching out for the letter. His heart began to beat faster.

 

“He’s taken the castle,” she said excitedly. “He’s taken the Dreadfort, and the bastard’s dead.”

 

Ned’s eyes skimmed the clear, concise report Robb had written. They hadn’t lost too many men. Some of the weight lifted off his shoulders, and his smile spread as Cat hugged him tightly. “Our son is safe,” he muttered into her hair. “He’s safe.”

 

Ned closed his eyes and thanked the gods.

It was immensely difficult to get the color of Grey Wind’s fur right, Myrcella thought with a tinge of frustration. She had spent all morning mixing colors, trying to find the right smoky hue. It had been a maddening endeavor, and fruitless.

 

Well, perhaps not fruitless. She had finally realized that his fur was not a single color, nor even three. There were a hundred different hues that she seemed to remember from memory, and so she was trying--and failing--to paint in the outline it had taken her two days to trace. At least she had finished the eyes.

 

The knock at her door almost made her upend her pot of gold paint. “Yes?” she called, looking around. The door opened and the queen slipped into her room, her eyes widening at the uncolored sketch. Myrcella wished belatedly for some sort of cover that she could have thrown over her easel, and resolved to find one later.

 

“Your Grace,” she said, at the same time the queen said, “I have some exciting news.”

 

Robb. Her heart started to pound, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through her. The queen didn’t look particularly sad. Myrcella nodded at the chair next to the fire. “Wouldn’t you take a seat?”

 

“Robb will be coming home by the end of the week,” said the queen, ignoring her courtesy. “He has finally written.” She laughed out loud when Myrcella let out a very unladylike whoop and hugged her. “He’s coming home,” she repeated happily.

 

Myrcella was mortified to note that there were tears gathering in her own eyes.  _ Be strong like your mother,  _ she chastised herself.  _ Strong like Queen Catelyn.  _ She blinked till she had her tears under control, glad of the queen’s embrace. It allowed her to hide her face while she battled her emotions.

 

The queen cleared her throat and stepped back after a minute. Myrcella colored, but said nothing. She didn’t think she could trust her voice.

 

The queen nodded to her  outline of Grey Wind. “You can paint him easily now. He is coming home too.”

 

Myrcella smiled. He wouldn’t sit still enough for her to paint him, she knew.

 

“The officers are all going home,” Davos reported to Ned early the next morning. “They will probably end up having to pay for what Tywin Lannister will call treason, but they have nowhere else to go.”

 

“What about you, Ser Davos?” asked Ned. “What about the men? The red priestess?”

 

“Most of the men are also heading home to their families,” admitted Ser Davos. “They are eager to be home before winter sets in. There is scarce food in the South, and they need to harvest as much as they can before it becomes impossible.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know where I belong now. The Red Woman...”

 

“Does she wish to go East? To Essos?” Ned prompted.

 

The other man looked surprised by Ned’s logical thought. “No, Your Grace,” he said finally. “She insists on going to the Wall.”

 

Ned stared at the knight for a couple of seconds, trying to understand. “The Wall? Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” said the knight with a rueful grin. “But I have half a mind to join her.”

 

“There is danger lurking at the Wall,” said Ned. “You can both leave when my men do. My army is ready to march North, to clear out these wildlings once and for all, send them packing. Jon is Lord Commander now.” He couldn’t stop the pride from shining through at his statement.

 

“Jon Snow? Your bastard?”

 

As he had done several times before, Ned made a vague sound of affirmation and let the other man draw his own conclusions. “He has asked for my men, for support in beating back the wildlings. I have asked for soldiers, and they are already marching from White Harbor. The few men I have here are ready to march. The rest of the army is walking up the Kingsroad even now. My men will join them, and they will all head North, picking up more at Last Hearth before heading to the Wall. Stannis’ men are welcome to join them, though they are not mine to command. Jon insists he can lead them without me. He knows my leg still bothers me.”

 

“You won’t garrison them here?”

 

“I can’t,” said Ned. “Jon insists his need is immediate. I need them all to hurry, so they will wear what armor they have and will eat at what my bannermen send them off with. I am sending a supply train with my men, that should be enough to see them there.”

 

“You are going to let your bastard lead your men?”

 

Ned bristled at the wry tone, the gentle mockery. “I am going to send men to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, because I have been asked to do so.”

 

Ser Davos seemed to realize he had agitated Ned. “I only meant I would have thought you would be eager to see him, Your Grace.”

 

Ned wasn’t. He didn’t want to face Jon, not so soon. He had hoped to wait till the boy was older.  _ The next time we see each other, we will talk about your mother.  _ A promise was a promise. Who knew that better than him?


	18. Won Every Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb finally comes home. My plan to further the plot takes a break while randy teenagers do scandalous things that will probably make the birds and bees talk hell for Robb next chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter comes from Robb’s quote when he was beginning to lose the War.

By the time Robb came home, Ser Davos and the Red Woman were on their way to the Wall.

 

He knew nothing about any of that, of course. All he knew was that he was tired, covered in dust, sore from riding, and hungrier than he wanted to let on in front of his men. Grey Wind had left them for a while to go hunt down a deer, and he had almost moaned when he tasted the blood pool in his mouth, the warm thrill of the kill. It had been difficult to focus on his mount, or even the road in front of him. 

 

But they were all hungry, and dusty, and sore. And they were all still traumatized by what they had seen in the Dreadfort. The keep had certainly earned its name, it would seem. There had been so much blood in the dungeons…

 

But he could see Winterfell in the distance now, and the horrors of the Dreadfort didn’t matter. Grey Wind was already speeding towards the East Gate. Men were starting to stop and wave in Winter Town, and he heard sentries at the gate call out. The gate was open by the time the rag tag group of men drew up to it.

 

Stable boys rushed forward to take away his mount, greeting and happy cheers on their lips. Robb nodded at them all, too tired to do much else, and stood in the middle of the courtyard for a while, taking a deep breath. He was home.

 

His mother’s smile was gentle, at complete odds with the wild happiness in her eyes, when she came running out of the keep. Her steps slowed before the smallfolk ever saw her. “Welcome home, Robb,” she said, her voice tightly controlled, the voice of a queen. 

 

He played his part as well, giving her a small bow before she ushered him inside and hugged him so tightly he let out a slight gasp. She heard, and let him go instantly. “I was worried,” she muttered defensively and he laughed. 

 

She ushered him upstairs, muttering about getting someone to get a bath ready for him. He felt like a child again, being fussed over, but his mother was incessant. “Your father can wait for a report,” she chided when he tried to leave her presence. “Right now, you will bathe, and eat till you can eat no more. Then, and only then, will you see your father.”

 

He opened his mouth, about to ask her where Myrcella was, before he came to his senses and decided to shut up. His mother seemed to know exactly what was on his mind though. Her smirk made him feel defensive. When the servant boys came in with the big copper tub, his mother took his leave.

 

The feel of the warm water against his abused body felt wonderful. The smallfolk who lived in the Dreadfort had been afraid of Ramsay, as had his soldiers. They had fought with fervor, and many had targeted him, possibly hoping to get rid of him and ending the battle. Grey Wind had been vicious, but not enough to stop the impact of more than a few blunted blows. Bruises were blooming all over his shoulders, making him grunt when he shifted his arms. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. He was sure Maester Luwin would arrive with his lunch, ready to look him over. 

 

But Maester Luwin wasn’t his first visitor.

 

The rapid knocks on his door surprised him, making him almost drop his soap. He grunted vaguely in reply, annoyed by the intrusion, till he saw who it was.

 

Myrcella was breathing hard, probably having run from her rooms as soon as she heard he was back. He would like to think so. She looked like a vision, her unbound blonde hair like a halo around her face, her cheeks red with embarrassment at his naked state. He had imagined her like this, in his cold furs at night, soft and curious and gentle. He stared, even as she did the same.

 

There was a beat. Then two. 

 

Suddenly, as if there had been some subtle signal, Myrcella moved forward in a great flurry of skirts and hugged him, hard. Her knees hit the wet ground outside the bathtub as she leaned into him. He was wet, and he was getting her wet, but it was hard to care. He nosed at her hair, his soapy hands tight around her, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. She smelled like roses, something he had noticed the last time he had seen her, something he had dreamt of since then. She made a needy little sound in the back of her throat, tilted her head just so, and then finally, finally he was kissing her.

 

They kissed like they had been separated for years, not weeks. It wasn’t exactly romantic, more a hunger that drove them to insanity, with Robb’s hands fisted in her hair and Myrcella’s own cupping his face. He devoured her, there was no other word for it, but she didn’t mind. Instead, her tongue was the first to explore, and when his own started to dance, she moaned, reaching out a hand to steady herself as she fell into him. He twisted around, sloshing water, but once again not caring.

 

Robb cried out when her hand landed on his injured shoulder, hissing in a breath as she reared back.  _ No _ , he thought desperately, too breathless to say it out loud.  _ Come back, dammit. My little lion. Mine. _

 

“You’re hurt,” she said with horror, and Robb nodded distractedly. “I am sorry, Robb, I didn’t even see--” She gasped loudly when she moved back, out of his grasping hands to look at him properly.

 

“Don’t give a fuck,” he muttered, trying and failing to reach her. She looked horrified at the simple bruises, and Robb realized she was actually worried about him. He didn’t care. If he hadn’t been painfully hard right now, he would have stood up and stepped out of the infernal tub. He didn’t want to scare her. He was almost certain she had never seen a man naked.

 

“I missed you, little lion,” he murmured when he realized she really wasn’t going to touch him again.

 

Her eyes were still wide, staring at the bruise. She looked so concerned for him, so innocently horrified, that he groaned out loud. Suddenly, all he wanted was to take matters into his own hands and find some relief.

 

“I missed you too,” said Myrcella shyly, a blush painting her face. He wondered if she was thinking about the last time they had seen each other. He was. “I was so scared.”

 

“I am fine,” he said, reaching out to take a soft, warm hand in his own. “I am here now.”

 

“And then you will leave again. If not tomorrow, then the day after.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head resolutely. “No. I will--I will stronger next time. I will get used to it.”

 

For a while, Robb had no words. His little lion was not asking him to sit safe at home if his people needed him. Instead, she was insisting on getting better at dealing with the inevitable. Something constricted in his heart at her bravery. “Hand me that towel, little lion,” he said finally.

 

Her eyes widened comically. He still needed to wash his hair, it was filthy, but he hated the infernal tub for separating them. He wanted to touch her, to feel her body against his. He shouldn’t probably, but he did. She handed him the piece of roughspun cloth with a shy smile, then gasped and spinned around when he started to get up. He smiled. It was thoroughly satisfying to corrupt her. He liked making her blush.

 

“Robb!” she said, scandalized. Her back was to him, and she carefully avoided turning her head even an inch. It was adorable. 

 

He was, thankfully, not hard anymore. He made quick work of sluicing all the water off himself, then wrapped the towel around him. A warm fire was blazing in the hearth. He felt content. 

 

Then she was in his arms, her small body pressed to his, and he felt better than that. He peppered her face with kisses. She seemed flustered, unable to decide where to touch him, but he decided not to help. Sooner or later, his little lion would know that she could lay claim to all of him, without reserve. He could feel his cock twitch with interest, and wondered if she could too, through her skirts--wet as they were.

 

The knock at the door nearly made him growl. Myrcella squeaked. Before he could tell whoever it was to fuck off, the door was already opening.

 

Servants, carrying in food from the kitchens. Everybody froze for a few very long seconds. Robb was suddenly very aware that he was almost completely naked, save for a thin towel that wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding anything. At least Myrcella was completely dressed. He wondered if the whole castle would know of this by sundown.

 

Myrcella had instinctively hidden behind him when she had heard the door open, but there was no doubt who it was. She stayed stuck to his back, her breath heavy and panicked on her naked shoulder, as the servants came in and started to set down his lunch. He nodded at them, trying to look regal and prince-like instead of a randy, half-naked idiot, and thanked all the gods he knew of when they left. The soft slam of the door made Myrcella jump.

 

“They will tell,” she said immediately, stepping out from behind him. 

 

“Probably,” said Robb, trying to sound calm. His father was going to kill him. “It was just a couple of kisses.” The soaking front of her dress seemed to glare accusingly at him as she paced in front of him, unable to stand still.

 

Myrcella spluttered. “That wasn’t a kiss. It was… it was… You are not wearing anything, Robb!”

 

He gestured weakly to the little piece of cloth hiding him from her eyes. “I am wearing enough.” When she glared at him, fists on hips, he gave a sheepish nod. “Fine, it’s not enough. But, Myrcella--”

 

“They are going to think me wanton!”

 

That caught his attention. “No,” he said strongly. “No, they won’t, little lion. I won’t let anyone speak any ill of you.” He moved forward and grabbed her shoulders, halting her and making her look at him. “They will think you sweet, a princess rightly excited to meet her prince after a long while.”

 

“While he was naked in his bath,” she added tartly, then groaned. “They will tell the queen!”

 

“My mother has better things to do than listen to the servants’ gossip, little lion,” he said with a smile. His mother would know before the evening meal, but she wouldn’t mention it to Myrcella.

  
Myrcella decided to flee at that exact moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella’s fine. She just really, really embarrassed, because this was really, really scandalous. I am toying with the idea of their wedding. As you know, Joffrey and Marg are getting married, and I am sort of toying with the idea of Robbcella marrying after that. I want lots of time for lots of sexual experimentation (like, everything except actual sex). You know, for shits and giggles. I want them being frisky and stuff, like randy teenagers should be. Also, I need to add in Jon’s storyline somehow. Seven hells all these threads are fucking difficult to combine.


	19. Love is Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this chapter apparently comes from Tyrion, in Dance. I apologize for being so late with this chapter, I had delicious ideas for my E-rated filthy Catelyn-hating series. But I am back to the randy teenagers now. Enjoy!

 

“We should have sent help to Jon long before now,” Robb muttered. “He needed men.”

“I couldn’t,” Ned insisted. He saw the annoyance in Robb’s eyes and rushed to explain. “I cannot send men to the Watch when I am being told by them that there is no  _ need _ .”

“Jon told you--”

“Jon was a steward,” interrupted Ned. “Ser Alliser was the master-at-arms.”

“Jon is your son,” retorted Robb, his temper rising. It felt simple to him. Why would extra men be a problem even if they were not needed? The Watch barely had men. Robb thought they might be rather grateful for the help. “He is a member of this family, and he needed help. You should have trusted him.”

Ned had no reply. He wondered when his son had grown up, when he had realized that he knew better than his own father. It was a curious feeling, knowing that Robb was going to think differently than he was, and he was going to make his opinions known. He was not a little boy anymore. War had chewed up a boy and spit out a man. Somewhere out in the Riverlands, Robb had learnt how to lead, how to be a king. Perhaps it would be difficult to agree on things from now on, but Ned couldn’t help feeling proud. He would never want Robb to blindly follow in his footsteps. He was glad the boy was thinking for himself.

“Jon has written to us again,” he said. “The wildlings were pushed back.”

“Good,” said Robb with a sheepish nod, perhaps feeling embarrassment at his decisive disdain of his father’s hesitance to help his brother. “I’m glad. Have they chosen a Lord Commander yet?”

“Look how Jon signed it,” said Ned. He nudged the letter closer to Robb, who picked it up and leaned back in his chair as he read. He checked the signature first, as he had been asked to. His smile grew when he saw Jon’s new title, but then he began to read the whole letter in earnest.  

There was a companionable silence for a few moments, and Ned was more than reluctant to break it. But Catelyn  _ had  _ asked him to intervene, to talk to Robb. He should, of course. It was important that the children don’t court scandal, even if they were to be married. He knew how easy it was to forget honor and decorum when your blood was up. He knew the thrill of doing something scandalous, secure in the knowledge of a future betrothal. He knew the pain of shattered dreams, when reality surrounded you and smothered all hope for the future you had dreamt of.

Of course, Myrcella was nothing like Ashara, and Robb was already promised to her. But Ashara’s death had left him with a lesson, and it was his duty to make sure Robb knew about the consequences of his actions.

“There was another matter...” he began cautiously, wondering if there was some way he could wriggle his way out of this talk. Perhaps he could just ask Catelyn to talk to Robb... But then she would tell him to talk to  _ Myrcella _ , and he would rather douse himself in wildfire and strike a flint before he let himself be cajoled into doing  _ that. _ This was  _ far  _ less awkward.

Robb hummed, his attention still mostly on Jon’s words. “What is it?”

Ned wished he had taken a day or two to think on his words. Or perhaps a whole week. “When do you want to be married?” he blurted out finally. It was as good a way to steer the conversation as any.

Robb finally set down the letter and gave Ned his full attention. His brow furrowed. “I thought Myrcella would like being married in King’s Landing. Vile as she is, Cersei is still her mother. I thought we could get married in the Great Sept.” He tilted his head in question. “Do you think it would anger our bannermen? I am the prince, do you think we should get married before heading South?”

“I don’t know,” said Ned honestly. “I would want her surrounded by her family too, and most Northern houses will be invited. I don’t think they will mind.”

“If we ask Tywin Lannister to pay for some of it,” said Robb with a quiet chuckle, “we would be able to give our men a grand wedding. Then they definitely won’t mind. If they do, we can have a ceremony in our godswood.”

Ned swallowed as he thought over his next words. “Are you certain you can wait that long?” Robb’s suddenly guarded posture told him this line of inquiry had been expected.

“Of course I can,” said Robb with as much conviction as he could probably muster. Neither of them mentioned the stories making the rounds of Winterfell, and neither acknowledged out loud that the other knew. “I am not a child.”

Ned sighed. “No, you are not. You are a man now, and Myrcella is a woman. If you are not careful…” He trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t have to finish the sentence.

Robb’s face flushed hot with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. “I am!” He must have realized how childish he sounded, for he took a deep breath before saying any more. “Like I said, father, I am not a child. I do understand what we are doing, what is expected of me. I understand the consequences of… of lust. I am aware of what I… you know. What I can and can’t do.”

Ned wondered if his face was as red as Robb’s. They were both looking anywhere except the other by now, and Ned wished feverently for a respite from this conversation. But even though he was glad Robb had some insight into all this, there was more to be said. 

“The… consequences of--of your...lust was not all I was talking of,” he said. Gods! When had Robb become someone to discuss lust and sex with? He had been playing with wooden swords only a while ago. When had he grown up? Robb looked perplexed, waiting for him to explain. “The servants talk, Robb. It’s how I know, it’s how your mother knows, even the Septa knows.” Robb was turning even a darker shade of red. “I don’t want people to think wicked thoughts of your wife… I don’t want them questioning--”

“There’s nothing to question,” Robb said hotly, fierce protection burning away his embarrassment. “She was happy to see me, is all, Father. It was only a few kisses, nothing more. Any man who decides the story needs embellishment will meet the end of my fist.”

Ned smiled. “You are going to fight every man who suggests anything untoward about Myrcella?” He sobered when Robb nodded resolutely. “You know what they say… about her parents. About her mother and uncle.” 

Robb gave another jerky nod. “It’s true. But I don’t hold it against her. Her political importance isn’t diminished by the rumors, and I don’t care who her parents are. She belongs to the North now.”

“But the men talk, Robb,” said Ned. “They call her a bastard behind her back. All the world whispers behind her back. You know this.”

“I do,” Robb said through clenched teeth. 

“Bastards are said to be… deviant in their behavior,” said Ned carefully. “They are considered more lustful, more… wild.” He held up a hand before Robb could argue the point. “I know it’s not true. I know it’s unfair and unkind. But I don’t want these rumors to have any fodder. For them to turn vicious. We must protect her the best we can, Robb.”

His final words seemed to have struck a chord, exactly like he had hoped for. Robb’s face relaxed, as did his shoulders. He nodded once, decisively, then took his leave.

* * *

 

Her prince was avoiding her.

 

It wasn’t blatant enough to anger her or shame her, but it was noticeable. He had stopped walking her to her room, or taking long walks in the glass gardens with her. In fact, he seemed to make sure that the only time they saw each other was when they were surrounded by other people. His words were courteous and polite, and his hands stayed away from her.

 

Myrcella wondered how scandalized her Septa would be if she knew Myrcella wished Robb’s hands would stray.

 

She longed to be alone with him, to see the fire in his icy eyes. Had she done something wrong when she had visited him in his chambers? Men visited their woman, she knew, when they needed to. She had never actually heard of the opposite happening. But surely he couldn’t be angry with her for that? She had been concerned for him, for his life, for his safety. All that worry had simply… boiled over.

 

Or perhaps he was angry because she had tried to hide herself behind him when they were discovered. Did he like her shameless? A proper lady  _ should  _ be horrified by what she had been caught doing. It had been instinct.

 

Well, at least she still had Grey Wind. 

 

The wolf followed her  _ everywhere.  _ Rosamund had started to call him a lovesick puppy, annoyed by his constant presence. She was afraid of Grey Wind, rightfully so, but brave about it when he wasn’t present. The combination of terror and disdain amused Myrcella, which is why she was perfectly fine with her when Grey Wind decided to start sleeping in her chambers.

 

He was too big for the room, and he had trouble navigating the narrow stairs, but Myrcella didn’t mind. She felt closer to her prince when Grey Wind was around, as if the wolf was some part of him she had claimed. She loved stroking his majestic fur, giggling as he made little yipping noises to show how it pleased him. He really was like a giant puppy with her.

 

The only time it was uncomfortable having him in her room was when she… missed Robb’s touch.

 

It always happened at night, when she had spent her dinner staring forlornly at her noble prince. She would remember the feel of his hands against her body when she was in bed. Her hands would begin to roam of their own accord, and she would blush pink when Grey Wind’s ears perked up and he began to stare at her. She knew he was just an animal, and it wasn’t really like she had an audience, but his eyes were so  _ intelligent. _ It sometimes felt like it was  _ Robb  _ watching her be so wicked.

 

She stopped her roaming hands and wandering imagination for six days. She was even getting used to it. But then, on the seventh night, her frustrated body made her dream of him. 

 

He was kissing her again, with all the fervor she had missed, his hands running up and down her body as if to calm a nervous filly. But she wasn’t nervous, not at all, this was familiar, this was home. His face was hidden in her neck, but she knew it was him, his hot breath tickling her ear. She clutched him tight, refusing to let him go, refusing to let him be noble.

 

“I missed you,” she moaned when his wandering hands began to ruck up her nightdress. “I missed you, my prince. Oh!” His hands were on her thighs now, hot and patient, slowly trailing in towards her cunny, and she wanted. She wanted him, she wanted his hands, and his mouth, she wanted--

 

Before she could think of anything else, she was wrenched out of her sleep by a hand roughly jostling her awake. 

 

“Noooo,” she muttered like a petulant child. She was too hot and distracted to fully grasp the thought that there was someone in her room. Grey Wind was here. She needn’t worry. But he was still jostling her out of her delicious dream. Her hands twitched on her exposed thigh. “Don’t! Robb...”

 

“Wake up, little lion,” said a hoarse whisper in her ear. “Wake up before I dishonor myself completely and do this while you sleep.”

 

She jolted awake when his lips found hers in the darkness. “Robb? You came...”

 

“Of course I did,” he muttered against the skin of her neck. “You looked… beautiful, I couldn’t--utterly debauched… all mine.” 

 

His lips were nipping at her skin, at the top of her breasts, and Myrcella couldn’t help but arch into his reckless touch. His hands were batting hers away, and she was still unsure whether or not she was dreaming when she felt his now-familiar touch over her smallclothes. “Oh, Gods,” he muttered again, his sigh a gentle kiss to her clothed teat. “So wet… I can feel you through the damned cloth, Cella.”

 

She didn’t really know what to say to that, and wasn’t sure she would be able to say it if she knew. His hand was moving in maddening circles, his mouth was suckling at her breast like a babe, and she could only cling to him for dear life and hope she made it out of this alive. She thought fleetingly of how amazing it would feel if she could feel his touch without her clothes in the way, but it was a futile thought. All this was so new to her. She couldn’t really comprehend such a level of pleasure, could only drown in the glory of his ministrations, raising her hips wantonly, that feeling inside her rising higher and higher, to the very top…

 

Till crashed down in a tangle of sweaty limbs and thrusting hips, his name on her lips. He was moving too, she thought dimly, unable to see in the dark. His hand was still moving over her, and his mouth seemed sealed tight over her nipple, but he was moving his hips into her furs too. She heard the sounds he was making, the frantic gasps as he moved, and sensed his desperation.  _ Let me help you, _ she wanted to say.  _ I will do whatever you want me to do to you.  _ But she was out of breath, and talking seemed like it would take too much effort, so she simply stroked his silken curls, arching her back to offer up her breasts to him.

 

He groaned, low and deep, when he scrambled to his feet. She was certain he was still desperate for the release she had just enjoyed, but he sluggishly moved away from her, ignoring her whimpered protests until he was back on his feet and they were no longer touching.

 

“Good night, little lion,” he said, his voice strangled. Before she could ask him how she was supposed to sleep now, he left, his steps sure in the dark. 

 

Grey Wind was sitting next to the fire, his hulking size casting a shadow over her bed. He was the reason she had been unable to see Robb. She stared at him for a while, and fell asleep watching his sharp gaze flicker from her face to her the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Robb has wolf dreams. I think it’s an SSM that all the Stark children do. Robb tried guys, he tried real hard but… well, it didn’t work for long, did it? 
> 
> Also, I have created a new [Wordpress blog](%E2%80%9Casthawrites.wordpress.com%E2%80%9D) where I am going to post original short stories, posts and recommendations on the craft of writing, etc. It is updated every Friday at 9 pm too. Please check it out, and consider subscribing via wordpress or email. It has been depressingly lackluster the past few days.


	20. The Nature of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb is avoiding Myrcella, but she has a plan forming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I am so, so sorry! I was gone for so long, leaving this story hanging, but guess what? I have figured out the timeline satisfactorily. There’s no naughty stuff in this chapter, because Robb is trying so hard to be a good boy, but don’t worry. Myrcella has a plan.**
> 
>  
> 
> **The title of the chapter comes from Archmaester Rigney.  
> **  
> 

 

 

It was the queen’s smug smile that gave it away.

Myrcella hadn’t slept very well, her dreams the sweetest kind of torture. She dreamt of Robb, and in her dreams she was chasing him through the gardens of the Red Keep. Tommen was trying to keep up with her, but he was easily distracted. Myrcella kept running, trying to find him, for she knew her prince was going to kiss her once she found him, was going to please her in the way that made her breath catch and her heart stop. She wanted it. She craved it. She  _ craved  _ him.

But he was out of her reach, both in her dream and in reality. She hoped all through the night that he would appear to her again, as he had a few nights ago: a shadow in the night that would hold her in his arms and mutter wonderful words in her ear, touch her sinfully until she sobbed with pleasure.

He didn’t slip into her room that night.

She saw him in the morning though, when she was breaking her fast with the queen, who seemed to wake up at dawn. They were the only ones in the great hall till Robb joined them. 

He didn’t seem to notice the queen at first, and his steps faltered when he approached the table. Myrcella was certain he was of a mind to turn around and leave. He saw the queen at the very last minute, and sat next to her, ignoring the empty seat next to Myrcella. She tried to ignore his hurtful behaviour, to remember the feel of his hands on her skin, but he was being  _ very  _ confusing.

Refusing to make an ass of herself mooning over him, Myrcella deliberately ignored him and stared at the queen instead.

And the queen smiled. It was the knowing smile a mother gives when her child finally learns his courtesies, when he stops picking his nose in front of guests or wailing at a feast. It was the smile of a woman who was very pleased by the distance between them.

_ Oh. _

Her prince wasn’t ignoring her, he was simply listening to his mother, trying to protect Myrcella’s honor. She wondered how he could do it, when all she could think about, all day, was him. His breath on her face, him panting in her ear, his little moans that drove her wild… and his hands. His glorious, glorious hands, calloused and strong, yet so very gentle with her. She blushed even now, sitting with his mother, thinking about his late night visit. He had sounded so desperate… did he find any pleasure in that? In what they had been doing? She wanted him to feel good too. He liked kissing, she knew that, but… she wanted more for him. How…?

“Will you sew with me today, Myrcella?” asked the queen suddenly. “After your lessons, once I am done with the steward, we can sew for a while. You need to finish that dress before we leave, child, if you mean to wear it at your brother’s wedding.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Myrcella politely, barely aware of what she was agreeing to. She didn’t realize she was frowning thoughtfully at her prince.

* * *

 

“Rosamund?”

The room was dark, with only the softly burning fire giving off enough light for Myrcella to see her friend. They were huddled in bed together today. Grey Wind was away, hunting perhaps, and Myrcella had been lonely enough to request Rose’s company. 

“Milady?” Her voice was heavy with sleep.

“Have you ever… had a man?”

Rosamund was silent for a while. Myrcella wondered if she had made a mistake asking the question. Would Rose be angry for such a blatant question? Would she assume wrongly of Myrcella? She had been lulled by the moment, the intimacy, and had wanted to talk about all these new feelings of hers. Oh, how could she have been so stupid?

“Have you, milady?” asked Rosamund quietly, and held out a hand to Myrcella’s cheek. “Has he…?”

“No,” said Myrcella quickly, unwilling to take Robb down with her. “We have only ever… kissed. I was simply wondering if...”

There was silence for a while. Rose allowed her that much. She just watched with alert eyes, inviting the intimacy back in. “I want to please him,” said Myrcella in a rush, lest she lose her nerve.

“I daresay you do, milady,” said Rose mildly, infuriating her. “He must think about your sweet kisses often, he tries so hard not to pant after you.” There was a smile in her voice. “If he asks for more than you are willing to give, you tell me. I will make certain his parents know within the hour.”

Myrcella blushed. “It’s quite the opposite,” she murmured. “He asks for less than I want to give. All he does is give. I wanna give too, I just… don’t know how.”

Once again, the only sound in the chambers was the popping and crackling of the fire. Rosamund took a deep breath. “Have you seen his cock yet?”

“Rosamund!” Myrcella’s whisper was scandalized.

“Well, you should. Then see if you feel like touching it. They like that.”

Before Myrcella could ask her how she knew, Rosamund was snoring.

* * *

 

It wouldn’t quite do to stride up to Robb when he was practicing in the training yard, pull him down till she could whisper in his ear that she wanted to see his… him, down there. 

 

Unfortunately, three days after her conversation with Rosamund, it seemed like the only avenue left to her. Her prince was avoiding her as if she had greyscale, talking to her haltingly only in front of others, and the queen was looking more and more smug after every such uncomfortable interaction. She was at her wit’s end about how to get him alone, how to tell him she missed his company and his touch and his wolf and… him. She missed him.

 

It wasn’t as if Myrcella didn’t have other things to worry about. They were getting ready to leave for King’s Landing, and there was so much to prepare. There was to be a wagon laden with gifts for the new queen, and a wheelhouse for her and Princess Sansa. The princess helped her with the embroidery on her dress, the green one she had made for the ceremony itself, and Myrcella couldn’t be happier. She was going home, and once they came back, she would marry her prince in the Winterfell godswood.

 

The queen had asked her if she wanted to be married before they left, or she wanted to get married in the Sept of Baelor. She felt bad about the speed with which she had refused the kind offer, but the queen had smiled, satisfied. Myrcella hadn’t wanted to get married in the Sept of Baelor, to steal the pomp and show of Joff’s wedding. Perhaps it was vain of her to want a wedding all for herself, but she knew her own wedding would be an afterthought to the king’s if it happened in King’s Landing. She was a princess, marrying the handsome young wolf. She deserved to have a wedding out of the songs.

 

So Robb and her were to attend Joff’s wedding at King’s Landing, then hurry home to attend their own. Myrcella felt giddy whenever she thought of it.

 

If only Robb would talk to her, she could tell him too, how happy she was that she was marrying him. He was a hero from the songs, and he was all hers. She wondered if the gods would frown on her for trying to steal a few kisses from her own betrothed. After all, she did know where his chambers were...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It was a rather short chapter, I know. And no smut!! Sorry, sorry, I will give you your randy teenagers next chapter. We need to focus on Robb’s poor neglected cock now, methinks.**
> 
>  
> 
> **I am evil for not replying to the comments in my inbox. I know. But I am going to go do that now, and then my inbox will be empty, and won’t you like to fill it up again please?  
> **  
> 


	21. Into a Woman's Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the proofread, audlie45! Muah!!
> 
> The name of the chapter comes from Catelyn, who wished that if Robb had to fall in a woman’s arms, why couldn’t it have been Margaery?
> 
> Also, Robb’s poor cock is being a bit neglected, isn’t it? Let’s fix that.

She had lost her nerve eight times in the course of a single meal. She was acutely aware of Robb sitting next to her, barely talking to her, and it infuriated her enough to grit her teeth and decide that she was really doing this.

 

But then, a servant would smirk at her for blatantly staring at him, and she would realize that she was too craven to risk it. What if someone saw her? She would be ruined. Rosamund insisted that if they were careful no one  _ would  _ see them, and she desperately wanted to believe her friend. That was why they were going together, was it not? 

 

Besides, she was running out of time. They were to leave for King’s Landing in a week, and she knew that the last two days or so would be very busy for everyone. The Queen was already looking frazzled. There was simply too much left to do.

 

It would have to be tonight. Rosamund was looking at her from the table down below, questioning her resolve, and Myrcella smiled in answer. Rose nodded, and turned back to her food.

 

The castle was silent when they slipped out of her chambers, the full moon high in the clear sky. Myrcella shivered in the cold wind, anticipation running through her. It all felt incredibly naughty to her, and she wondered what the Septa would say if she knew.

 

But no one saw them. They hid in a darkened doorway when they heard footsteps, but it was only a stable boy running off to fetch something or the other. Before she was ready for it, they were at Robb’s door. 

 

Did he even want her here? She wasn’t supposed to know where his chambers were. If Rosamund hadn’t asked around so discreetly, they wouldn’t have known which direction to take. Maybe he liked it that way. Maybe this would not be as welcome as she thought.

 

But before she could lose her nerve one more time, Rose was leaving just like they had discussed. Myrcella lifted her hand to knock, changed her mind, and tried the door. It was open. She slipped through.

 

Robb’s chambers were much better lit than her own, given the hour. He was still working on something, hunched over the desk in his solar and writing in a ledger that looked like it might be older than her. She had been quiet, and he hadn’t noticed her yet. She stared at his handsome face, at the little frown and the tired eyes, and couldn’t stop the smile from blooming across her face. Her prince. He was everything she could have hoped for, and she was ever thankful to the gods for him.

The day refused to end.

 

Robb would love to enjoy a good night’s sleep, but there was much to do. A consignment of fish from White Harbor had rotted on the way to Winterfell, and the grain count was lower than they had hoped for. Father had already written to Lord Manderly, but… the Northern soldiers would march to the wall soon, if asked for by his brother. They would need food. War had destroyed the fields in the Riverlands, food was getting harder to come by.

 

So he frowned, and bent over his desk, and tried to make the numbers add up.

 

“Robb.”

 

It was so unexpected to hear her voice that Robb wondered if he had fallen asleep and begun to dream of her again. She looked a vision in the soft light from his candle, all golden and wonderful. Her stance was shy, fingers clasped tightly in front of her. His own fingers twitched, desperate to touch.

 

He smiled, and Myrcella’s uncertain gaze warmed. She stepped forward. “Good evening, Robb,” she said cheekily, like nothing untoward was happening.

 

“You seem to be lost, little princess,” he murmured quietly. What was she doing here?

 

“Maybe,” she said coyly. “Or maybe I wanted to visit you in the middle of the night, like you do.”

 

Robb colored, and she laughed boldly. Where was all this boldness coming from? She grinned at Grey Wind, who had left the adjoining bed chambers to nudge her head with his giant muzzle. By the time Grey Wind moved away, Robb had stepped away from his desk and was so close to her he could smell the tantalizing perfume her maid must have put on her.

 

“Does my little lion miss me?” he asked, hoping.

 

“She misses your kisses,” Myrcella insisted with an unwavering gaze. She pulled him to her before he could reply, and the kiss was sweet. 

 

“My little princess,” muttered Robb, dropping sweet kisses all over her face. “My sweet, sweet lion.”

 

Myrcella didn’t let him go, kissing him with a desperation that set his blood to fire. He couldn’t stop his hands from sliding to the nape of her neck, and then higher as he tilted her head up. She must have spent some time getting ready for him, but with the sweet taste of her on his lips he was far less gentle with her than he would have liked.

 

She didn’t seem to mind though. She moaned when he grabbed her arse with his free hand, when he moulded her to him in a way that made them both break the kiss to better enjoy the sensation. When it became too much, when his cock began to fill, she whined at his attempt to step back, nipping at his jaw in reproach.

 

Robb’s moan was helpless, and it took every ounce of his control to wrench free of her grasping hands.  _ A kiss is all this was,  _ he thought.  _ Why am I so affected by a kiss?  _ He turned around to hide his hardness from her.

 

“Robb?”

 

He could still feel the warmth of her arse beneath his hand, could still feel the way her own hands had desperately grasped his jerkin. These kisses would be the death of him. “You’re the sweetest sort of torture, little lion,” he said, wincing at how out of breath he sounded. 

 

Her hand was warm and small on his arm, but it turned him around with surprising strength. “Why won’t you look at me?” There it was, that vulnerability and fear again. “Did you not want…? I will take my leave.”

 

The notion of him  _ not  _ wanting her was so absurd that Robb began to laugh. Once he started, he couldn’t stop giggling every time he looked down into her confused face. She was starting to look offended though, so he tried to explain. “If anything, my problem is the opposite, sweetling.” He waved vaguely towards his cock before he realized she might have no idea what he was talking about.

 

She was now staring at his clothed, hard cock. Perfect. Just what he needed.

 

He tried to turn around again, but her hand tightened where it lay on his arm, stopping him. “Robb,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I want to see it.”

 

Once she had said it, she flushed in mortification, the color turning deeper the more he stared at her. He was incapable of doing anything else, since all the blood had rushed from his head to his cock at her declaration. He felt jittery, like he might shatter this dream if he wasn’t careful. He needed his wits about him, but they seemed to have scattered so thoroughly that there was a vague worry of being a simpleton the rest of his life.

 

“Are you certain?” he whispered back, wondering if they were really going to do this.

 

Her gaze hardened from shy to stubborn. “You touch me all the time!” she accused. “I should return the favor.”

 

Were they really standing here, red faced, discussing their intimate moments? “You don’t… Myrcella, my little lion, nothing would please me more, but you don’t have to. You know that, yes?”

 

The more he talked, the more indignant she seemed to get. “I know. I would still like a peek inside your breeches, my lord.” Her stance turned expectant, and he realized she meant to do it right now.  _ What’s wrong with right now? This is a wonderful moment in time. _

 

She gasped in surprise when he suddenly pulled her towards his bedchambers. When she realized what was happening, she started to giggle. “You need to leave us for a bit,” she told Grey Wind, then laughed at his disgruntled whine. She waited patiently while Robb built up the fire and latched the door, peering at the carving on his bedposts and the sword leaning against the wall.

 

When he turned from the fire, she was there. “You are very handsome, my lord,” she said solemnly, and it was better than any declaration of love he could have imagined. “I...” She colored and didn’t finish her sentence.

 

“What is it?” he asked, his whisper urgent. He would pluck the moon for her in this moment, if she asked. If he could think, he would be afraid of the power she had over him. He had dreamed of her in this room, of the way she had looked when she called out for him in the throes of passion. And now, she was in his room, staring at the laces that held his jerkin together. 

 

“Could you… take it off?” Even in the faint light of the fire, he could see how fiercely she blushed. “I… I want to see you.”

 

He was a corrupt, foolish, selfish man, for his hands were working on the knots before he even thought about it. Her gaze didn’t leave his, not even when he had shed both jerkin and tunic, when he stood there bare-chested in front of her. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

 

When she did look at him, her eyes widened. She made a distressed sound when she saw the biggest of his battlefield scars, but then her gaze heated when it explored the rest of her body. Her touch was gentle, unsure, her fingers trembling slightly. 

 

“Myrcella,” he breathed, the single hesitant touch of her finger nearly unmanning him. What was she doing to him?

 

“You are different,” she said. “From me. Hard where I am soft...” Her fingers traced over his abdomen.

 

He whined when she dipped a finger in his belly button. It was impossible to not imagine this hesitant, fleeting touch elsewhere, and his cock responded eagerly to the touches. He had no hope of wishing she hadn’t seen it twitch; he was exposed, at her mercy.

 

“Oh,” she said with wonder, her gaze riveted on his cock. She had seen it twitch, could see how hard it was in his breeches. “Robb... ”

 

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. This might have been the most erotic thing to ever happen to him. He hadn’t even dared dream she would miss him enough to seek him out, to try… whatever it was they were doing. He would do whatever she wanted, he was sure of it.

 

The other hand, the one that wasn’t combing through the hair on his abdomen, started to fiddle with the ties of his breeches. He let out a harsh breath through the nose, stumbling as his knees began to give out. She followed him, taking a step forward for each one he took back, and giggled when he collapsed onto his bed.

 

“You’re quiet,” she accused.

 

“I’m busy feeling your divine hands on me,” he countered, amazed that he was able to string together a coherent reply. His cock was still holding all his blood hostage.

 

“You don’t mind?” Her question was timid as she settled next to him at the foot of the bed.

 

He let out a strangled laugh in answer. “Do I look like I mind?” He waved at the bulge in his breeches, drawing her attention once more.

 

It took her no time to open up the knots, but she didn’t let him help. He lifted his hips to help her take off his last items of clothing, and then he was naked, alone on his bed, with his little lion kneeling in front of him. She straightened after a few seconds, smiling uncertainly.

 

They froze for a few moments, Myrcella staring at his cock while he stared at her. This night was going to haunt him till his wedding day, he was certain of it.

 

“It looks like it hurts,” she whispered quietly.

 

“It doesn’t,” he replied. “It wants… fuck.”

 

Her brow furrowed. “What does that word  _ mean? _ ”

 

He groaned out loud, too loud in the hushed room, and fell back to the bed. He was going to die tonight. Seventeen years on this Earth, and today was the day his life ended because his little minx decided to sneak into his room.

 

The smooth, cool touch of her hand on his manhood made him almost bolt upright.

 

He didn’t though. He wanted to do a great many things, but somehow the moment felt hung in a delicate balance, like a sword being tested. So he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think. All he could do was  _ feel. _   
  
Her touch was tentative, like she was learning with her hands, and Robb endured the delicious exploration till he thought he would die if she didn’t put more pressure on his cock.

 

“You can… more, ha-harder,” he muttered, barely aware he wasn't making sense. Closing his eyes might have been a bad decision, but he didn’t remember making it.

 

She looked up at him, brow furrowed again in a way that made him want to kiss her confusion away. “What?”

 

“You can… touch it--hold it--harder. If you want. Please.”

 

She tried, pressing her fingers to him, not gripping, and he wanted to cry in frustration. 

 

She must have sensed it, because she withdrew her hand to take the one he had fisted in his furs. “Show me, my lord.”

 

So he did, he wrapped her small, soft fingers around himself, showed her how to move, and tried not to come like a greenboy at the way she was focusing on his lesson. Her eyes were intense green pools, and he could see the hunger in them. He let go when she demanded it, and lay back when she pushed.

 

By the time he came, he was a shivering, babbling mess that Myrcella seemed to enjoy a bit too much. She didn’t seem to mind the way he growled at the end, the desperate way he wrapped his hand around hers and bucked into their joined hands like a wild animal. He could barely breathe, let alone think about what he was doing. 

 

“I am sorry,” he panted when he could. “I should have--”

 

“Why?” she interrupted, giddy. She was staring at the stain on her dress he was apologizing for, and he was suddenly stuck by the absurdity of being naked when she was fully clothed. His body was too pliant, too languid to move. So he just watched, smiling at her fascination.

 

“It’s over?”

 

“It is,” he answered. “Sooner than I would have liked.” Her eyes widened when he grinned. “Over for  _ me,  _ anyway.”

 

When he lunged at her, she almost shrieked with laughter before remembering that the castle still slumbered. Then she was finally under him, and he could pepper her face with kisses, delighting in her giggles.

 

It took awhile for him to notice the commotion outside, and even when he did, it was hard to leave. Myrcella grasped for him, her nails digging in his arm, but he had to see what was wrong. With any luck, the men were screaming because a horse had run off in the middle of the night.

 

It wasn’t just a horse.

 

Someone was at the east gate, driving a carriage. His blood ran cold. There was no reason for someone to ride up to a castle in the middle of the night unless they brought trouble with them.

 

“Can it be a beggar from Wintertown?” asked Myrcella from behind him. 

 

“No, not with a carriage. That man has been on a journey. He may have brought friends.”

 

A lone soldier left the gate to fetch his father, and Robb knew something was very, very wrong.

* * *

 


End file.
